The Carousel
by MercedesCarello
Summary: (Historical AU) The year is 1919. To celebrate his last week as a bachelor, the wealthy and prominent Erwin Smith takes a group of his fellow gentlemen for one last night out in London. Little do they know what awaits them at The Carousel, a mysterious and opulent underground cabaret-come-gentleman's club that Erwin seems all too familiar with. (Canon characters and OCs.)
1. Chapter 1: A Carriage Ride

**Obligatory Statement of the Obvious: **I do not own anything apart from my plot and original characters. The canon characters and their dynamics all belong to Hajime Isayama. This is my first attempt at an AU, especially a historical one, so comments and suggestions are greatly appreciated! I'm trying my best to keep everyone in character while also maintaining accuracy for the setting.

**An Introductory Note from the Author:** After careful consideration and in response to reader comments, for the sake of clarity I have reverted all characters' names to their cannon versions/spellings regardless of whether that name was historically/geographically common at the time. (For those interested, the originally-conceived tweakings are on my Tumblr account.) The gents tend to refer to one another by surname. Hope this helps!

* * *

**Chapter 1: A Carriage Ride  
**_(Armin Arlert)_

"This seems a long way to go for dessert," Yeager complained; he'd been looking out of the window of the carriage at the city shrouded in night, but now he slumped back in his seat.

"It'll be worth it, trust me," said Smith.

Arlert eyed their tall friend, his impressive frame nearly filling his quarter of the carriage as he adjusted his waistcoat. He had already suspected that they weren't being driven somewhere for cakes or candies – not at this time of night and not this far from their homes – and now he was fairly certain. After all, Smith was celebrating his last week as a bachelor and they'd already spent a good portion of the evening in a suspiciously docile manner: a fine dinner, some barely-touched brandies and a round or two of billiards, the usual toasts. And then after some whispered words to his best man, in his charming way he had ushered them all into the two carriages that awaited them.

Arlert had a sinking feeling about where they were going. The buildings flowing past them were becoming less and less grand, their gardens less and less well-kept. He could feel the roads deteriorating beneath them by the way the ride grew more jostling. They were headed for the bad part of town and that spoke of either drinking to excess, gambling, opium, or prostitutes – none of which he, as one of the youngest and less 'broken in' of their party, felt comfortable with. But it was him against seven others, and if nothing else he wanted them to have at least one sober person with them as they walked into whatever den of devilry it was going to be.

He should have known. Yet he'd felt incapable of rejecting the invitation of a man so well-liked and well-connected. Erwin Smith, His Lord Lieutenant the Earl of Stohess, was already a well-respected soldier and philanthropist, not to mention having obtained the title of Earl from his late father at an early age, and now he was marrying into old money. He was the embodiment of good fortune and they, in turn, were fortunate to be his friends. The idea of him having less than savory tastes seemed so out of character.

Suddenly they had come to a stop, stirring Arlert from his thoughts. Already the driver was hopping down and opening the door, and they were spilling onto the footpath. The newly-arrived winter air woke him up, and he peered around him at the nondescript buildings and scattering of gaslamps. The nearest sign – at the cross-street where they'd stopped – read Elm Gardens but didn't look anything of the sort.

No one else seemed too concerned, however. The raucous laughter of the four members of the other carriage disembarking stirred the night. Arlert turned to them and self-consciously adjusted his own ill-fitting jacket – although around his age, Braun, Hoover, Kirstein and Springer seemed confident and well-put-together, as though they had the same tailor.

"Gentlemen, this way," Smith said, and began to lead them away from the carriages and to the corner of Elm Gardens. He seemed to know precisely where he was going, even though to Arlert they were in a residential rather than commercial area and there was little by way of landmarks or light. Nonetheless they trailed him, reenacting their actions at the Somme nearly a year ago at a much slower pace. Arlert, glancing in front and behind him, could even swear they were in the exact same order, and with a faint pain in his breast noted the spaces between them, where their fallen comrades should have been.

In the dim light between the streetlamps, Arlert thought he could make out a small park on their left. Maybe 'Elm Gardens' wasn't such a misnomer after all. It hardly seemed impressive, though, and even less still cause for them to be out here without their overcoats. Yet Smith led them toward it, holding the glossy green gate for Ackerman and the rest of them before leading them yet again, this time down a ramp that Arlert figured serviced the fountain in the center of the park. It seemed odd to require a pump room for so small a fountain, and it added to his nerves – what little light they had was vanishing and so too was his confidence in Smith. What heinous thing could possibly await them down here apart from a mugging or a murder?

At the bottom of the ramp, Smith stopped and the group soon followed suit, finally falling quiet. Arlert heard him knock on the single door six times in a pattern he didn't recognize. There was a scrape of metal that revealed a rectangle of golden light at eye-level no bigger than a postslot, and it was shortly blocked by a face.

"_Eiswein_," said Smith. "And they're with me."

Presently the slot in the door closed, and the sound of bolts being drawn back echoed around the cramped space before the door swung outward. Arlert craned his neck to see a corridor, a wall-mounted gaslamp and a red-uniformed doorman, but little else.

The doorman nodded, "Welcome back, Lord Stohess."

'_Back'?_ Arlert repeated in his head. _He's been here before?_

"Thank you, Hicks," Smith acknowledged, and headed past him into the corridor.

Once again they followed. A glance around him told Arlert that the others were now as wary as he was. The corridor was warm, narrow and as nondescript as the street had been, and the sound of the door squeaking shut behind them was little comfort. He nearly stumbled when all of a sudden, wooden stairs began.

"Trust you to pick strange venues, Smithy," chuckled Braun.

"Interesting as this is," Kirstein added, "I'd very much like to know where we're going. I wasn't planning on crawling around in a sewer tonight."

"As opposed to any other night?" Springer jibed.

"A much…freer establishment than the Savoy Hotel. I did promise dessert," Smith answered.

A few more jokes were tossed back and forth but Arlert was too focused on his feet. The last thing he wanted was to trip and fall into Ackerman and risk the ill-tempered one's wrath. In fact, he'd been surprised that Ackerman had come along at all. He'd known of course that he was the closest to Smith, but revelry had never seemed his favorite pastime, no matter the occasion.

Eventually the stairs ended; Arlert guessed they were at least a storey underground but dreaded to think what could possibly be down here all this way. Yet the short but wider corridor that met them was carpeted in burgundy, and even the walls had wood paneling. Four evenly-spaced oil lamps led them to another two flanking another door with a gleaming brass knob. Outside it was another doorman in red, and he smiled as Smith approached.

"Welcome to you and your guests, Lord Stohess. We'd heard of your upcoming nuptials and had hoped to see you before the blessed day to wish you good health," said the mustached doorman. "We're grateful for the opportunity." He reached out a white-gloved hand and grasped the door handle, turning it.

"Many thanks, Broadmoore," said Smith, "I'd been hoping, too."

The door was opened for them and Arlert was immediately assaulted with a blur of colors, heady smells, voices and music. He was vaguely aware of following Smith and Ackerman onto a landing of some kind beyond the door, and heard Broadmoore say, "Welcome to The Carousel, gentlemen," as the others entered behind him and the deceptive little door sealed them off from the outside world.

As the others began their excited and appreciative noises, all Arlert could do was groan to himself and think back to his previous speculations: drinking to excess, gambling, opium, or prostitutes. As his eyes struggled to take in the decadence in front of him, he noted with dismay:

_It appears to be all of the above._


	2. Chapter 2: The Carousel

**A Note from the Author:** After careful consideration and in response to reader comments, for the sake of clarity I have reverted all characters' names to their cannon versions/spellings regardless of whether that name was historically/geographically common at the time. (For those interested, the originally-conceived tweakings are on my Tumblr account.) The gents tend to refer to one another by surname. Hope this helps!

* * *

**Chapter 2: The Carousel**

_(Armin Arlert)_

"Blimey," said Springer. He hung onto Arlert's shoulder as though he'd lost the strength in his legs, and craned his neck to look over his shoulder.

Arlert had to blink a few times to make sure he wasn't seeing things. The space before him was much larger than he could have possibly anticipated, and dimly lit. But it was the fact that several parts of the great circular hall were moving that bewildered him the most: the outside of the room, divided into several colorfully-lit individual boudoirs divided by darkness like the spokes of a wheel, rotated slowly one way and gradually passed beneath them – it was then that he realized their entry landing was much deeper than he had first thought – while the middle of the room held what appeared to be an eponymous gilded carousel rotating the opposite direction. Arrangements of tables and booths between the two cogs remained still and he was thankful for that.

"My good fellows, let's not stand here all night. Come," Smith was saying. A couple of waitstaff were collecting their hats and Arlert distractedly handed his over too.

"What in God's name is this place?" Kirstein asked.

"Are you sure this is quite proper?" Hoover added nervously. Arlert wasn't surprised – of all of them, with the exception of Smith, as an Earl's son he stood the most to lose should this place yield unsavory characters that liked talking on the streets.

"Fear not, every guest here is chosen and trusted. A gentlemen's code, if you will," Smith called back as he descended a coil of stairs to their left. They followed him down into the lively modern jazz music swirling below like a fast-moving current.

Arlert cast his eyes about again. Many of the red-clothed tables and velvet-upholstered booths were occupied by well-dressed men like themselves, of varying ages, and they didn't seem to pay the newcomers any mind. Scantily-clad women walked among them or sat beside them, handing out drinks or sweet treats or passing an opium pipe. There were even a couple dancing on a table. As they descended through a cloud of smoke – both incense and opium – he could see colors more vividly: jewel tones and gold gilding on the furniture and stemware, glittering brass and copper of the light fixtures. Along with the peppery, sweet spice of the smoke was that of liquor, and it grew stronger as the stairs curved right, back into the room, to deposit them almost immediately alongside a well-stocked bar on the stationary portion of the floor.

The hardwood floor underfoot was overlaid with well-worn Persian rugs that softened their steps, along with the seating areas forming little private islands of indulgence. The free space in front of the dark, polished wood of the bar branched out into winding pathways leading to and around the opulent, full-sized carousel in the center. Only – Arlert peered closer, letting the others pass him – instead of horses and fantastical creatures, there were…performers. He didn't know what else to call them. They hung from thick ribbons suspended from the carousel's roof or lounged on chaises, spun around poles and stretched around and over each other, decorated as if they were little more than objects in an amusement park. Mirrors behind them ensured that very little was left unseen. He watched one patron waddle up and beckon at one of the girls, who smiled coyly and sidled off her portion of the platform, looping her arm through his.

Arlert didn't know whether to feel horror or embarrassment, but was disappointed to find that a small part of him was unfortunately intrigued. A glance at his companions showed their eyes already wandering, smiling at the women who passed and starting to posture themselves like roosters or peacocks.

"Smith, my good chap! Welcome back!" came a booming, friendly voice. Arlert turned back to the bar and saw a heavy-set man with rosy cheeks and a matching dinner jacket speeding toward Smith, his arms as outstretched from his body as his graying beard was from his chin. Arlert was as alarmed by this as he was by the fact that the man had neglected to address Smith with a title - exactly how well did they know each other? "Congratulations on your engagement," he said as he jovially shook his hand.

"Master Cyrus, good to see you," Smith smiled widely. When his hand was released he gestured behind him at his guests, "Friends of mine from the War. We're here for one last hurrah. Gentlemen, this is Master Philip Cyrus, the owner of this fine establishment and our host."

"No doubt you'll be wanting your garden, eh, Smith?" Cyrus nudged Smith with his elbow a couple of times.

_A garden? Surely he doesn't mean an actual garden, _Arlert rationalized.

"That does sound quite nice," Smith agreed.

"Good, it's settled. I'll take you to your usual booth." He turned his head to call over his shoulder, "Annie – a bottle of the plum wine and eight glasses, if you would."

Arlert's gaze followed their host's voice to behind the bar, where a petite young woman with her blonde hair tucked up or cut – he couldn't quite tell from this distance – into one of those short styles women seemed to be getting nowadays cast a disinterested glance their way. When she turned around from whatever she was doing, he could see that alarmingly, she seemed to be wearing a dark tie and tailored waistcoat over her white button-down, but he didn't linger to see any more. They were being led through the room.

"Of course I can round up your usual fare," he could make out Cyrus continuing, "and you'll be happy to know that we have a new item on the menu!"

"Oh?"

"Yes, a recently-imported exotic that I'm sure will add to your collection nicely. We're contemplating her for the revival of the Salome act."

"I'm sure that pleases you greatly, Master Cyrus."

_He's referring to a woman,_ Arlert realized, and couldn't help but feel a little sickened. He remembered his late father's words – progressive at the time but nowadays not so unusual – to the contrary: that a woman wasn't another kind of property. He had thought better of Smith.

Cyrus led them past other, smaller groups of gentlemen, none of whom Arlert recognized. Admittedly that wasn't hard to do; he was by far the least connected of his companions, to the point that sometimes he was sure he was only included by virtue of being Yeager's close childhood friend. The tinkling laughter of a passing pair of corseted women with feathered headdresses drew him back into the present before he could bump into them.

The booth Cyrus had referred to was somewhat opposite the bar, arranged as a long, thin horseshoe pointing toward the carousel with an oval table in its middle. Above it hung a mismatched collection of Arabian pierced lanterns with colored glass for their windows that dappled the rich, dark wood and emerald velvet with rainbows. The group filed into the collar-high seats, Smith at their center like the presiding lord he was.

"Make yourself comfortable, my good Sirs," Cyrus said. "Some plum wine – a specialty of ours imported from Japan – will be arriving shortly, compliments of the house, but of course your server will be happy to take your individual preferences. If you'll excuse me, I must ensure the night's acts are in order."

After Cyrus had left, Smith said, "In answer to your earlier question, Kirstein," he leaned forward so he could be better heard, "This is an exclusive gentlemen's club, styled on the cabarets in Paris. I don't believe it to be the only one of its kind in London but it _is_ the one I like the best. There's more variety. Here, we can drink superb vintages, gamble a little without fear of being sullied, enjoy a good show, and if we so wish, revel in the company of beautiful women. It is an enclave of catered desires."

"And err, exactly how long have you been catered to?" Braun, opposite Armin on one end of the booth, asked. His eyebrows waggled suggestively.

Smith kept his composed smile, "Since we got back from France. So nearly a year now, I suppose."

Arlert was startled by the arrival of an average-height young woman in structured folds of vivid magenta and gold. The equally folded nature of her lacquered ebony hair and her face, painted to look like porcelain, led to his quick assessment that she'd been styled to look like one of the geisha women he'd read about. However, on closer inspection of her bowed head and lowered eyes, he was shocked to find that this wasn't just a trick of powder and rouge – she truly was an Asian woman.

The others seemed just as stunned by this rarity; they said nothing, only stared, as she silently set down a tray of short stemmed glasses and, holding back one of her sweeping layered sleeves with an elegant hand, began to pour the contents of the equally squat bottle. Attracted by a slight glimmer on his periphery, he saw a fringed gold comb among the coils of her hair and another, slimmer one – with a surprisingly large pearl on its end – securing two deep red peonies there.

"Thank you, my Peony," Smith called from the other end of the table.

Arlert noted how she glanced up only briefly with a ghost of a smile, but did not look anywhere else. She left them the bottle and turned to go; Arlert noticed how her confident walk seemed at odds with the demeanor she'd just exhibited, suggesting to him that it had been an act for their benefit no matter how tetchy relations with the Chinese could be.

He looked back at the sound of the tray sliding over the table; Braun was taking a glass of the amber spirit and was about to make another smiling comment as he passed the tray down when a woman's hand fell on his arm. The amusement on his face was at a direct contrast with the exasperation Arlert felt – he'd much rather they just be left alone – but despite himself, he looked too.

"Allow me," came a purr from a surprisingly tall, slim, bronze-skinned woman with mahogany hair and a scattering of freckles under her eyes and across the bridge of her nose. Arlert was mortified to discover that she wore little other than a cut-away bejeweled brassiere and a pair of loose silken pants gathered at her ankles. He sat as far back in his seat as possible as she lifted herself onto her knees on the table, deftly taking the tray. She smelt intoxicatingly of jasmine.

"Well I'll say," Yeager, beside him, began, but didn't seem to know how to finish.

"My Iris," Smith said welcomingly. "You'll be tending to us tonight?"

"If you'd like," she shrugged with a coy smile. "I'm glad you decided to bring friends." The men watched, mesmerized, as she managed to artfully stretch, slide and coil her way down the length of the table, "You know what I say," she deposited glasses in front of them as she went and somehow managing to not knock them over, despite a long limb trailing out here or there enticingly close, "the more the merrier." Once she'd reached the end she laid on her back and, stretched out to her full length, was almost as long as the table. One of her hands played with Smith's tie as she looked at him upside-down. "What'll you be having?"

Arlert was just wondering how impressive it'd be if she could remember eight different drink orders when he caught sight of another pearl – two in a line, in fact; the lower one larger than the one atop it – this time as a piercing through the woman's navel. It sat there on her flat stomach like, he blushed to admit, an obscenely large bead of spent seed – no doubt the desired effect.

"Several things," Smith answered. "But how about we start with a claret for me."

The Iris made a noise deep in her throat, her hands continuing to busy themselves with his tie. Arlert watched in half-wonder, half-alarm as one of her green-satin-covered legs bent at the knee and arched up, then down, crooking her bare foot to direct Hoover's face in her direction. "And you?"

Hoover stammered, turning red.

The Iris looked back at Smith. "They know they're allowed to touch, right?"

Smith reached out and brushed stray strands of her hair out of her freckled face. "It's their first time. Play nice."

She sat up, then, growling in appreciation, "Oh, they'll need some breaking-in, then. How fun."

* * *

**A(nother) Note from the Author:** A couple of things - first, big shout out to Wings of Wax and the mysterious Guest for my first reviews of this piece! Thank you muchly! In response to your query, Guest, I've decided to keep potential or actual pairings a mystery on this one - after all, don't want to spoil the surprise(s)!

Second, though - regarding the brief narrative concerning 'the Peony', Mikasa. I'm very aware that geisha are from Japanese culture rather than Chinese - and likewise that her name is of Japanese influence - the mishmash above is designed to reflect misnomers and scattered education and rumor of the time. The Chinese population was quite low in London around 1919 and due to various media released at that time, equated to a certain sinister nature and an association with seedy activities. Anything Asian was kinda smashed together into a titillating hodgepodge of 'the Orient', regardless of country.

Anyhow, thank you for reading! Hope you're enjoying!


	3. Chapter 3: Acts of Commerce

**An Introductory Note from the Author:** After careful consideration and in response to reader comments, for the sake of clarity I have reverted all characters' names to their cannon versions/spellings regardless of whether that name was historically/geographically common at the time. (For those interested, the originally-conceived tweakings are on my Tumblr account.) The gents tend to refer to one another by surname. Hope this helps!

**'Flowers' revealed so far:** Iris - Ymir; Peony - Mikasa

* * *

**Chapter 3: Acts of Commerce  
**_(Annie, Historia)_

Anne looked up from wiping up a spill, her blonde hair falling over one eye, to see the Iris – Ymir – sauntering back in the direction of the bar, no doubt with the newcomers' individual orders. She passed her gaze over them, at this distance not able to see much apart from the tops of their heads or, in the case of the three taller ones among them, their collars.

She had to admit a sort of twisted gratefulness at seeing Lord Stohess again, though she'd never admit it. It tapped at her like the pearl earrings he'd gifted her tapped at her neck. He was the only one that had treated her with any real regard or respect – the few times anyone else had given her any attention, it had been crass and quickly-withdrawn, a drunken mistake or what they to be perceived to be scraping the bottom of the barrel. Most of the time, it was fine with her.

"Lots of fun to be had there," Ymir said, jerking her head over her shoulder to indicate the booth. She slid back to her the empty tray on which Annie had sent the new Gekkeikan import.

Annie didn't respond, merely folded her rag over on itself and stored it out of sight, and waited. It seemed all she ever did, lately, and couldn't stop the sullenness this caused from mellowing her features night after night.

"Hope you're ready for this," Ymir said and leaned on the bar. She lifted her eyes to the curtained ceiling and recited, "A claret, two whiskies – one straight, one on the rocks – and a brandy, a vodka with a lime wedge, a Black Russian, and a Sidecar."

"Only seven? There's eight of them," Annie said, repeating them back to herself in her head.

"I guess he's happy with the plum wine, though he didn't really seem to have touched that, either."

Annie let out an imperceptible sigh and began plucking glasses from shelves. As always, she poured Lord Stohess' claret first, even though he would receive it at the same time as everyone else. Another habit was to guess whose drink belonged to who and to that end, she wondered about this new group Lord Stohess had brought with him. Unlike other companions he'd arrived with before, these she didn't recognize.

"So who are they?" she asked Ymir. Although not altogether friends with the woman, they'd arrived around the same time and she was useful when it came to gathering information from afar. As she walked down the bar to grab the cognac, she paused to top up the gin of one of her regulars without letting his awfully nasal voice leave his mouth, and carried on.

"Not sure yet, though I'd hazard a guess that the real tall one is someone important. I think I've seen his face in the papers," Ymir smiled in a predatory way. "I didn't see any rings on them. I would've thought at least a couple of them would be…"

Annie finished the two whiskies and the brandy, placing them beside the claret on the tray. The crystal shimmered in the light of the lamps behind her. "A cadre of bachelors, hm. That's bound to get some hearts going. Best warn Historia." She pulled out the vodka.

Ymir frowned and bristled. "She plays. She'd hate that life."

Annie quirked her eyebrows and let that tangent of the conversation be shut down. Ymir was extremely touchy when it came to Christine; while often paired with her for the enjoyment of the men who liked to see two women caress one another, Annie was astute enough to know that it ran much deeper than an act, at least for Ymir. While such inclinations weren't unheard of, Annie wondered if that wasn't why Ymir had been driven here in the first place.

She deftly sliced a lime wedge and hooked it onto the rim of the glass of vodka without having realized she had poured it. Most nights were like that. She moved in a haze. It was the best way to cope, though she never went to the levels of some of the other girls and regularly partook of opium.

Her eyes flickered upward. Ymir was staring contemplatively at the carousel, a scowl on her face. Again, Annie waited.

"What the new girl's name?" Ymir asked eventually. "The one who's already taken on the Salome lead?"

Annie glanced at the Carousel but couldn't see the new girl anywhere – perhaps there'd been no prompting involved, and Ymir had been thinking about this for a while. Hardly surprising, considering Salome used to be her role. "Mercedes, I think. Spanish, but you know Cyrus – she'll be Arabian or Indian or Egyptian or who knows what else by the time he's done." She started on the Black Russian.

Ymir sneered, huffing. "A Spaniard, huh." She hummed and stretched, making eyes at an older gentleman who passed on his way out of one of the private boudoirs, his tie askew. "We'll see."

Annie found Ymir's bitterness tiresome, and hurried to finish the drinks so she could send her away. When she was done, she carefully slid the tray back to avoid spills. "Salome's not the only act. You'll be fine," she said, as a half-hearted gesture of encouragement. Not so much because she cared about Ymir being usurped, but because acts of support was the commerce among the women in this place.

Ymir responded by pointing a finger in Annie's direction, and tapping her nail on the bar, which Annie had learnt was the best she was going to get from her by way of thanks. Ymir picked up the tray and took her leave. Annie in turn took advantage of the short break in bar traffic to take a sip of her own glass of water, out of habit being sure to place her lips on the exact same spot she'd used before to limit the amount of coral-colored lipstick she left around the rim, somehow feeling as if it would mean less to clean but in truth, hoping that someone would remember her for that – a single kiss. A girlish notion, that she'd know her 'one' by that sign. She tried not to think about it.

"You'd get more tips if you smiled."

Annie put her glass away beneath the bar before turning to the cheery, lazy-sounding female voice. "I could already do with less tips from you, Dasha," she replied, putting a hand on her hip and narrowing her eyes tiredly. "What do you want?"

"Another round of Manhattans, for the Cairo Suite."

"You forgot the tray I sent you with the first time," Annie noticed.

The brunette tottered on her gold-painted heels, contrary to her normal poise. Her costume, styled in the colors of a monarch butterfly – that Annie personally found garish – with scarlet accents, consisted of a bustle and flounces of skirts longer in the back and practically nonexistent in the front to show off her toned legs, and a shimmering orange corset to make the most of her smaller bust trimmed in black feathers to match those decorating her pinned-up hair. Everything seemed in place, but Alexandra's scarlet lipstick was smudged and her brown eyes were red-rimmed. The smell on her told Anne everything she needed to know.

Annie frowned, letting sympathy leak back into her voice, "You should go easy on the opium," she said. Her eyebrows rose. "People get addicted to it, you know."

Sasha made a less than pleasant face and pressed her black-gloved hands on the bar, separating them and sweeping them to either side of her as she stepped close. The double-stranded pearl bracelet on her left wrist scraped across the polished wood. "I'm sorry, I don't remember you being my boss. So how about those stupid Manhattans?"

Although tempted to shove the ice she was procuring down Sasha's corset, Annie resisted. She'd have to talk to her later, when she wasn't moving in a fog.

* * *

Historia looked up from powdering her collarbone as the relative hush of the dressing room was disturbed by the door opening. Noise – the laughter of men, drunk and aroused; the jazz musicians warming up the night, skittering footsteps of the other girls – rushed into the small, warm space like water rushing to fill every inch of a glass. Happily it was shut out very quickly.

The younger girl, Georgiana – too young to legally be in an act, in the meantime her understudy of sorts – ran to her. "Lord Stohess is here!" she said excitedly.

Historia smiled, returning her gaze to the brand new electrically-lit mirror she'd rapidly and easily claimed as her own. "How wonderful," she agreed. "It's been at least a couple of months." She replaced her powder puff and began to tease at the golden hair piled high on her head.

"He has quite the group with him," Georgiana confided. "Another seven gentlemen. The shorter one – what is it – Ackerman, of course. But the others I've not seen before. Master Cyrus is asking for the Lord Lieutenant's favorites."

Georgiana plucked the violet orb of Historia's perfume atomizer from the vanity, and Historia tilted her head slightly forward and to the left – obligingly, Georgiana sprayed the lily-scented perfume on Historia's neck and her skin prickled pleasantly and briefly with the sensation before it dried.

"I'll be up soon," Historia responded, still smiling. "I'm just helping the new girl, what with her first act being tonight. Could use some extra support; you know how it is." She reached forward to the vanity and plucked the pearl and cameo collar necklace from its lacquered surface; she'd removed it earlier to refresh her powder. "Before you go, would you mind terribly?" she brought the collar to her throat and held its ends at the back of her neck, hovering implicitly.

Ever-eager in a way that made Historia both pleased and saddened, Georgiana took hold of the clasps and fastened it for her. Historia looked in the mirror with satisfaction – the gift from Lord Stohess had been in good taste, for it highlighted the prized feature of her graceful, long neck.

"Thank you, Georgie," she said and the girl nodded, leaving the dressing room to return to Master Cyrus. _Six newcomers,_ she repeated to herself. She didn't care much for Captain Ackerman and was fairly certain that title was not accurate, but it mattered little – she'd seen how he often snuck away from Lord Stohess to partake of the same strawberry-blonde every time. But these newcomers…was Ymir already there? No doubt she was. She, too, was one of Lord Stohess' favorites, after all. Maybe he would ask the two of them to kiss for him again.

Historia blushed and quelled the rapid beats of her heart, and turned to her right. Two dressing tables away, the new girl sat silent as one of the costumiers held up yard after yard of near-translucent voile to her copper skin, trying to decide which color suited her best. Knowing how important it was for one's first act, one's first impression, to soar clear and true, Historia rose from her stool and made her way to them. She thought of all the colors the girls closest to her wore, and wouldn't think of stealing theirs. Maybe it was her usual role influencing her, she reflected as she glanced at her old-fashioned, tiny corseted waist and figure-hugging Victorian lines, but despite their world, Historia wanted there to be some relics of propriety down here.

She glanced over the fabrics and the costumier let her. Her fingertips grazed them. "You're the new Salome tonight?" she asked, smiling into the mirror at the girl. She was prettier than Historia had originally given her credit for, now that she had been cleaned up.

"Yes," the girl replied taciturnly. "When I'm not Mercedes." The corners of her full lips, red even without the aid of lipstick, turned downward in a scowl.

Historia understood the undercurrent to her voice. It was difficult to separate one's act and one's person, after a while. She remembered being like this girl – new, determined to have an identity, resistant and in denial of the realities of their life.

Putting away those thoughts, her fingers alighted on a swathe of gold draped over the costumier's arm. She pushed aside the greens and blues and held it to Mercedes' shoulders, humming in satisfaction. "Yes. This one." Smiling more broadly, she leaned over so that her face was close to hers, and looked at them both in the mirror – the classic, delicate, pale English beauty beside the sculpted, exotic Spaniard – and said, "They'll be calling you Lady of Mercies in no time." She gave her arm an encouraging squeeze, and left her.

Out in the dark, cold and narrow hall below the churning of the stage slowly spinning on its axis – the underbelly of her world, which was the underbelly of the outside world, she reflected with irony – Historia stopped and lit a cigarette. However unladylike it apparently was, it calmed her. It seemed to push the usual pressures out of her mind: to perform well, to be the prettiest, to keep Ymir calm or keep everyone calm, for that matter. She started at the sound of footsteps.

Mikasa, the Asian wait-girl, appeared out of the shadows. She frowned. "Those'll kill you, Historia."

Historia rapidly stabbed the cigarette out on the bricks of the wall. "I appreciate your concern, Mikasa, but I'm sure you're wrong." She smiled, returning to her act, pinching her cheeks and she passed on her way to Lord Stohess.

* * *

**A(nother) Note from the Author:** Many thanks to ohtobealady's help with titles and forms of address! Also, I've heard some concern expressed as to not making pairings obvious from the get-go - I'm a firm believer in not spoiling the surprise for my readers if I can avoid it, as I feel it saps some of the enjoyability out of it. I will say this, however - there will be pairings that aren't so surprising, and some that may be! :)


	4. Chapter 4: Pearls

**An Introductory Note from the Author:** After careful consideration and in response to reader comments, for the sake of clarity I have reverted all characters' names to their cannon versions/spellings regardless of whether that name was historically/geographically common at the time. (For those interested, the originally-conceived tweakings are on my Tumblr account.) The gents tend to refer to one another by surname. Hope this helps!

**'Flowers' revealed so far:** Iris - Ymir; Peony - Mikasa.

* * *

**Chapter 4: Pearls**  
_(Armin Arlert)_

Thankfully, the Iris was no longer on the table; after returning with and distributing their individual drinks, she had sat herself on the back of the booth, draped her long legs over Hoover's shoulders and crossed her ankles over his stomach. The young man was motionless apart from the steady rise and fall of his brandy glass, sweat beading on his forehead as the girl's hand trailed idly through his hair. He looked as nervous as Arlert felt – his own legs were beginning to shake and ache from the strain of holding himself rigid and far back into the booth.

_I still can't believe this,_ Arlert thought, taking another sip of the potent plum wine. He glanced down the table to Smith, who was exchanging low words yet again with Ackerman.

"So," Springer spoke up, swirling his Sidecar in his hand and adopting a confident smirk as he leaned back in his seat on the other side of Yeager. His green eyes sparkled as he looked across the table. "You're the Iris, huh?"

The Iris hummed an assent, leaning close to Hoover's ear and nuzzling against it. Hoover jumped and nearly dropped his brandy.

"And we've heard there's a Peony," Kirstein nodded to the glass of plum wine that the Asian girl had brought them, sitting next to his Black Russian. He turned to Smith on his left, "What's with this 'garden' business?"

"Is it so unusual to hear a woman's loveliness recalled as a flower?"

Arlert turned to the melodious new voice approaching their table, and was taken by surprise in quite a different fashion from that he'd experienced with the Iris. This time, the voice belonged to a delicate young woman in a full-length, corseted pale pink and ivory satin evening gown; her creamy skin was complimented by matching long gloves and a cameo and pearl collar nestled against her neck, and her sugary-blonde hair was coiled on the top of her head in the more traditional bouffant. Her blue eyes were lowered demurely but a sweet smile was on her face. While pleased, Arlert was confused – he was looking at a lady. What was she doing down here?

"May I?" she said to Braun, nodding at the seat beside him. He rather violently shunted over to make room for the comparatively tiny woman, who perched gracefully next to him. "Thank you."

"Let me guess, another flower?" Springer beamed and cast his voice in Smith's direction.

Smith merely smiled and took a sip of his claret.

"Astute of you," she smiled. "I'll let you have three guesses as to which I am, and if you don't manage it, we'll have to come up with a suitable forfeit."

"Rose?"

"Try again."

"Err…lilac?"

She smiled more strongly, the apples of her cheeks swelling and glowing. She shook her head and it made the loose tendrils of her hair dance.

"I daresay I'm not a flower person," Springer conceded.

"Anyone else care to hazard a guess?" she asked the group. "Though I'm sorry to say your friend has used up your other two chances."

"Gentlemen, this is the Lily," Smith said as he set down his glass.

"That's quite the spoilsport of you, Smith!" Braun said. He turned his attention to the low, lace-trimmed neckline of the Lily's gown, "I was quite looking forward to what was in mind for a forfeit."

"You don't look like a whore," Yeager observed.

Arlert grimaced. "Don't you think that a bit rude?" he exclaimed in a hiss.

"I appreciate your concern," the Lily reached a gloved hand over the table and touched his arm lightly, "But your friend isn't out of line, exactly. I am and I am not what I seem." She let her coyness sink in with her listeners, and then leaned back and against Braun, taking his arm in a familiar way. However, her gaze rose to the Iris as she continued, "No doubt you've noticed that there are many kinds of desire, and thus different means of satisfying it." She looked at Yeager, "I am merely one taste, one flower. You have all been invited here to indulge – or discover – your own. And naturally we're here to help in any way we can."

"My dear," Smith began, "I've heard tell of a new arrival. Might you tell us more?"

"Ever-focused, aren't we?" she giggled. "Oh, I wouldn't want to spoil the surprise. But look – they're changing the band now. The show should start soon."

Arlert looked around and saw, in the far right-hand corner nearly obscured by the carousel, the suited figures of the jazz band were mulling about, gathering their instruments and packing up. Other instruments that he couldn't readily identify were being brought in to replace them.

"Lord Stohess! You're back!"

Arlert returned his gaze to his left, where a brunette that he could not see very well was running around the back of the booth on his side. She emerged beside him – a corseted showgirl in orange, black and scarlet, average height with a candid face. He could smell traces of opium on her. Her brown eyes were instantly on Smith.

"I'm so glad you came; it's been a while!" she said.

"As I am too," he smiled back at her.

"And you brought friends – how fun!" she looked around at the gentlemen and there was a mischievous twinkle in her eyes that made Arlert uncomfortable. He hoped she didn't try to sit on him. Or beside him, for that matter. Her breasts were nearly falling out of the black feather-trimmed corset as she leaned over.

"Good guests," the Lily began, "as I am the Lily so is this the Poppy."

The Poppy straightened at her nickname and struck a pose, relaxing one leg to cock a hip, her arms arching over her head. She gave a giggle and a grin and shimmied the long ruffled bustle behind her. Springer whistled at her and she responded by blowing a kiss in a playful way. Arlert caught the shimmer of a pearl bracelet on the black satin of her left glove. "I do so love parties!" she exclaimed, bouncing her bare shoulders.

"Get ready for a bit of rough and tumble with that one, boys," said the Lily. She plucked Braun's vodka from the table, angling herself so her back rested against the table and she faced him. She held it to his mouth and he sipped with a wolfish smile.

"Oh, I'm not that bad," the Poppy chided her. Arlert twitched as she planted a gold heel on the seat beside him and climbed up, picking her way over him and Yeager and then up onto the table. At their exclamations she laughed gaily and did a little spin. She moved next to the back of the booth, tottering on its narrow ridge of soft upholstery.

"You're going to fall!" Arlert couldn't help but blurt out.

"But there's so many of you here to catch me!" She hopped back to the table in front of Springer and laughed again. She crouched down in front of him and let him look all the way up her thigh to her waist. "It's you, is it?" she asked. Her hand groped behind her through her skirts and procured his Sidecar, the yellow of the orange juice in it seeming even brighter against the orange of her corset. She maneuvered herself to first sit on the edge of the table and then, without spilling his drink, slip off it into his lap. Springer laughed somewhat nervously but also appreciatively, and he took his glass. She leaned her elbows back on the table and hooded her eyes at him as he drank.

"Quite the variety of women you seem to have collected, Smith," Kirstein said. He shifted slightly away from Springer and fished his own drink out from under the hem of the Poppy's skirt.

"A poor hobby if you ask me." Arlert was surprised to hear Ackerman finally chiming in, albeit so bitterly. He knocked back his iceless whiskey and clapped the empty glass on the table, before speaking sideways to Smith, "No doubt you'll be wanting a private show for this newcomer, so if you'll excuse me – I've no taste for yet another garish display. Enjoy your last acquisition." To Arlert's surprise, he climbed up and over the back of the booth in order to get out, and was soon lost in the dim light.

"What's with him?" Yeager mumbled as he took a sip of his own whisky. The ice chinked in the glass.

"He prefers his tastes to be catered to in private," Smith said.

"He actually has a taste? And here?" Hoover managed to speak – although, Arlert suspected, if only to distract himself from the way the Iris was smoothing over and massaging his shoulders.

Mild laughter.

"So how exactly does one…have one's tastes catered to in private?" Springer asked, his free hand sliding testily over the Poppy's waist. "The rooms around the edge of the room?" he suggested.

"The suites," the Poppy chuckled low in her throat, pushing her face close to his.

"After the show, no doubt you'd like to take your pick of what The Carousel has to offer," the Lily chimed in. "The individual boudoirs are where we can get to know each other better."

"And before you get anxious, these lovely ones aren't exactly mine," Smith continued. He had a content smile on his face as his eyes flitted between the three women. "I do like to share, after all."

"Is this all of them?" Yeager asked, sounding somewhat worried. The girls laughed at him. "Well, them and the Peony or whomever, from earlier."

Smith smiled enigmatically. "Look for pearls. And yes, those four, plus one other, and perhaps," he lifted his gaze to the gilded carousel ever-rotating in front of them, "perhaps one more."

Arlert remembered the pearl on the hairpin in the Peony's hair; the two pearls above and in the Iris' navel; the pearl choker around the Lily's neck; the double-stranded pearl bracelet on the Poppy's wrist. And there was one more? Maybe two? Were the pearls a gift from him?

"'Perhaps one more'?" Kirstein repeated skeptically.

Smith raised his voice, "One more indulgence before I pack in my wicked ways, of course!"

The girls cooed and whined.

"And it's not going to be with one of these beauties?" Braun asked, taking hold of the Lily's tiny waist and lifting her onto his leg.

"We have the whole night to find out," Smith answered.

"May end up being with the new girl, right?" the Poppy suggested. Arlert couldn't quite tell if there was a sadness in her voice.

"If I ever see her!" Smith teased. "I'm beginning to think she doesn't exist, and all of you are telling me tall tales!"

"Oh ye of little faith," the Iris goaded, leaning her head to and fro as though stretching her neck. "I'm sure she'll be worth the wait."

Arlert picked up on the slight tinge of sarcasm and bitterness in the Iris' voice, and wondered why that could be. But before he could contemplate further, the lights that illuminated the carousel dimmed, drawing their attention. Although it did not stop its rotation, its tented top separated into sheets of fabric that were drawn out of sight, revealing a two-tier, smaller stage. Voices hushed, allowing the short, plucked notes from a mandolin to rise slowly into the air like sparks in the near-darkness.


	5. Chapter 5: The Dance of the Seven Veils

**An Introductory Note from the Author:** After careful consideration and in response to reader comments, for the sake of clarity I have reverted all characters' names to their cannon versions/spellings regardless of whether that name was historically/geographically common at the time. (For those interested, the originally-conceived tweakings are on my Tumblr account.) The gents tend to refer to one another by surname. Hope this helps!

**'Flowers' revealed so far:** Iris - Ymir; Peony - Mikasa; Lily - Historia; Poppy - Sasha.

* * *

**Chapter 5: The Dance of the Seven Veils  
**_(Mercedes [OC], Erwin Smith, Jean Kirstein)_

Mercedes stilled her breathing and bowed her head under the full-length pale gold silk veil that covered her entire body; the small platform underneath her rose into the half-dark until she stood at the highest point in the huge room – the topmost tier of the small stage on the roof of the carousel. The combination of the veil and the dimming of the room meant she couldn't make out much, but she knew that as the carousel turned underneath her, so did the stage and so did she. She was both grateful for and made nervous by the spotlight that illuminated her from above, and it seemed to wake her other senses – she could feel the cold, paper-covered stage beneath her bare feet, smell the incense and opium smoke, hear the meandering tune of the mandolin calling for her.

"Honored guests!" Cyrus' voice sailed through the vast space. "The Carousel is proud to announce the much-awaited return of Salome, and the Dance of the Seven Veils!"

There was mild applause in response, like the rustling of wind through wheat. Ever so briefly, Mercedes thought of home, and it felt as though her yearning for it was being drawn out of her body into the mournful notes of the duduk that were now rising through the dying applause.

It was time to start, whether she liked it or not. Her gaze lifted from the curved blade of the prop sword on the floor in front of her feet. She placed one foot in front of it, for balance.

* * *

The woman started slowly, first drawing up her arms. The spotlight penetrated the veil only slightly, meaning that only glimpses of her silhouette could be seen right now – every so often as she moved, bending and twisting sinuously, Smith made out the slope of a hip, the line of a leg, a mask of a face, but it was little more than half-shadows – and that in of itself was tantalizing. He sat forward in his seat.

The notes of the mandolin continued to be plucked at a varying tempo while the deep, serpentine notes of the flute-like instrument wove underneath it, and she moved with them, unhurried, like a shrouded statue was gracefully coming to life and testing its ability to move as it slowly turned on its pedestal.

Smith played with the glass in his hand, just as slowly tipping its bulb between first one finger and another, the claret inside it tilting with her body. A resonant male voice began to intone below the music – the alternately nasal and guttural voice reminded him of the _muezzin_ he'd heard while accompanying his father to India for the last time.

_How apt,_ he thought, _that a call to prayer would end first one, and now another, chapter of my life._ His eyes passed over the veiled woman again, from the glimpses of her ankles up to her crown and the tips of her fingers. _Is it to you I must pray?  
_

* * *

The mandolin and the _muezzin_'s voice died away, leaving only the rise and fall of the duduk. Mercedes paused, and then one of her arms drifted across her body to the other to pinch the full veil. She didn't want to take it off – didn't want for any of this to be real. The last few confusing months of training and crying for home, the threats, the beatings, the foiled escapes, never seeing the sun again…and now, she had to pretend all of that didn't exist. Because maybe, just maybe, if she danced well enough, one of those vile creatures in the crowd could be her passage out. For that chance, she was even willing to give the highest bidder her virtue.

_"In Japan, there are women whose work is the art of entertainment, called _geisha_," Mikasa had consoled her with one night; the night Cyrus had announced that her debut would also involve the sale of her virginity. "Their coming-of-age ceremony, called _mizuage_, would sometimes involve the loss of their purity, but this was not the focus. Try not to make it so precious a possession. To do so is to invite more harm to yourself than there already is – here, we must be as strong as possible."_

Inch by inch Mercedes drew the veil back, down her arm, over her head and body, until it slipped down her other arm into her hand. She stared at it, waited for the cue, focused on dancing for home.

* * *

The girl under the veil was revealed to have dark, curly hair nearly down to her waist, and the gold semi-transparent silk of her costume nearly melted into her copper skin. The lower half of her face was covered with yet another veil, in contrast to the bareness of her stomach, and yet more gold silk formed a layered skirt and draped between her shoulders and wrists. From this distance it was difficult for Kirstein to tell much more about her, but he supposed it didn't matter.

A steady, rousing drumbeat began, as did the winding of the girl's wrists and the twitching of her hips. When the male singer's voice returned on a single loud, undulated note, with a flick she had tossed the other end of her previously-discarded veil and caught it, immediately spinning into a cloud of silk that briefly lifted to show her bare legs. Many of the men in the audience cheered. The beat sped with her, as if all the sounds in the room were tied to her feet.

When she finally slowed she did a few more swirls of the veil over and around her head, kicking a foot out every so often, and then discarded it; it floated off the carousel into the darkness, like a ray of sun into the ocean.

She held her arms above her head, her wrists crossed as if chained there, as the drums and chanter were joined by tambourine and the flute Kirstein had heard earlier. He had just enough time to appreciate the hourglass of her figure before her hips rocked and circled in time with the beat, growing faster and impossibly faster – a clash of the drums and she kicked up a foot to one side, span again, dropped down into a crouch, threw back her head. When her upper body rose again she had a curved, short Arab sword in her hands, and she brought it high over her head. The music slowed a little as she balanced the sword on her head; her arms lowered until they were parallel with it, and she carefully stood. The sword did not fall.

Kirstein was intrigued despite himself, as were his friends, he noticed when he glanced around him. There were claps and cheers to this effect that were barely heard above the music.

"Is that sword real?" Springer asked incredulously.

The Iris seemed about to speak but the Lily cut her off with a coy, "Now now, we can't reveal all our secrets at once, can we?"

Kirstein returned his gaze to the stage. The girl was managing to rise and fall on her heels, sway her hips and roll her shoulders, all the while the sword on her head remaining perfectly still. She worked at first one then the other curtain of shimmering gold dripping from her arms, until they were both detached and hanging loose in her fingertips. She danced with them, fluttering them about her body and turning on the spot while the men cheered, until she discarded them too.

As she repeated the process with two veils covering the outside of her thighs, the cheering took on more hoots and hollers; a flower was tossed onto the stage and she took the time to pause, ever-poised, grab it delicately with her toes, carefully balance and raise her foot behind her, and reach back to take it, all without unbalancing the sword. The men reveled in it. She kissed the flower and slotted it into her hair.

The male singer fell silent, then, as did the drums and the flute; the mandolin began a hasty reprise to accompany the quick clacking of what sounded to Kirstein like mere wooden blocks being struck. To this tune the girl in gold reached behind her through her hair, grasped something, and pulled. The silks that'd looped over her upper arms like fallen dress straps were drawn away and insodoing, drew out of her brassiere, too, leaving little more than a gold metal brace to push up her breasts and a strip of centrally-knotted satin across the vital areas. The men howled more and Kirstein found himself getting a little warm under the collar. She played a little more with the two free pieces of fabric and then, they too were cast away.

He wanted to see her face. Why that was suddenly so important was beyond him, but he wanted it.

One last swathe of gold silk around her waist was drawn out now, too, and tossed into the crowd in an almost lackadaisical fashion. She could do anything now and they'd lap it up, Kirstein was sure of it. But still the short veil around her face remained. The more cynical part of him wondered if she wasn't much to look at underneath it, but he hoped he was wrong.

The male singer's voice was coming back again now, low at first, as were the deeper drums. The girl's dancing was growing more frenzied again. As she rolled her arms and stomach as smoothly as ocean waves, Kirstein watched her gradually drop to her knees and then begin to lean back – still the sword did not slip from her head but it felt like the room was holding its breath. Finally, when she was as far back as she could go while keeping her head vertical, she and the music paused. As the singer's voice soared, she took the hem of her veil between her fingers and raised it; her other arm curved behind her head, palm open. The drums began again, hammering into a final crescendo.

The veil snapped free. Her head tipped back; the sword fell into her waiting hand – the music stopped. Above her from out of nowhere, a cloud of live butterflies were released, sparkling as they floated away.

The cheers and clapping rapidly replaced the volume of the music, but despite this, Kirstein heard Smith beside him hum contentedly to himself. When he glanced at him, he saw a satisfied, almost predatory look on his face. A look that Kirstein was surprised to find made him defensive.

"She'll do nicely," Smith said to himself, so low that only Kirstein seemed to hear it.


	6. Chapter 6: Names

**An Introductory Note from the Author:** After careful consideration and in response to reader comments, for the sake of clarity I have reverted all characters' names to their cannon versions/spellings regardless of whether that name was historically/geographically common at the time. (For those interested, the originally-conceived tweakings are on my Tumblr account.) The gents tend to refer to one another by surname. Hope this helps!

**'Flowers' revealed so far:** Iris - Ymir; Peony - Mikasa; Lily - Historia; Poppy - Sasha.

* * *

**Chapter 6: Names**

_(Ymir, Mercedes [OC])_

Ymir's ministrations to the Earl's son between her legs grew softer as her concentration drifted. She tuned out the table's conversations and her eyes narrowed as she watched the new girl, the new Salome, disappear back down inside the carousel as the lights dimmed and the applause settled. Shortly, she saw the new girl emerge from behind the carousel and meet the stout figure of Master Cyrus, who began to enthusiastically lead her in their direction.

_Is there nowhere safe?_ she groaned inwardly.

If she was honest, Ymir didn't much care, ultimately, about giving up the Salome act – though she did still think it only luck that the girl had been a quick learner. She'd had little interest in anything other than Historia's wellbeing and comfort, even before the two of them had arrived here those two long years ago – her gaze fell on the girl in question, from her vantage point quite easily being able to see down her cleavage. And now…if Lord Stohess was here for a 'final hurrah', as he said, and if Lord Stohess was the one that had treated Historia best, as _she_ said, then Ymir had to do her best to stop the creature approaching them from having first choice. His last night belonged to Historia. If it didn't – Ymir tore her gaze away from the Historia's radiant loveliness and alighted on the distant figure of Annie – how long would it be until Historia was stripped of power, demoted, sidelined?

"Good gentlemen! I certainly hope you enjoyed the show!"

Ymir rolled her eyes at Master Cyrus' voice, but returned her attention to the table. Had this not been important, she would have excused herself under the pretense of refilling their drinks. She eyed the new girl standing beside Master Cyrus, her eyes downcast but her chin high, and had to laugh a little at the way the youngest-looking guest – the small blond – was trying even harder to shift away from her. He'd looked uncomfortable ever since he got here and was no doubt going into sensory overload by now.

"We certainly did," said the tall, ashen-haired young man on Lord Stohess' right.

Lord Stohess looked at him briefly in surprise but agreed, "Very much so. It was a delight of a debut."

Ymir raised an eyebrow – here was an opportunity, perhaps.

Master Cyrus' irritatingly jolly voice continued, "I thought you may like a formal introduction. This is Mercedes."

"Wait, you mean to say you have names other than flowers? They let you keep them?"

The entire table was silenced, and turned to the slighter, also-young-looking brown-haired man with green eyes. His blond friend beside him looked absolutely mortified and Ymir had to admit to being a little insulted herself.

As usual, it was up to Historia to rescue the situation. "You'll need something to summon us by in your dreams, won't you?" she purred. It was much nicer than Ymir's tip-of-tongue retort.

Master Cyrus gave a nervous _harrumph_ and continued despite the awkwardness, "Not only a veritable vestal virgin, but she also does a wonderful trick with champagne!"

Ymir savored the barely-hidden look of angry shame on Mercedes' face.

"I have fond memories of my travels in Spain," Lord Stohess said delicately.

Master Cyrus looked delighted at Smith's recognition of the name's origin, like it was a parlor trick. It only made him look like one of the ridiculously-ruffled elephants Mira once stood atop at the circus and just as she scoffed at that old life, she couldn't help but scoff now. She resumed massaging the Earl's son's shoulders through his warm dinnerjacket but still kept an eye on the proceedings.

"Perhaps a private demonstration of this 'champagne trick'?" Lord Stohess suggested.

Ymir caught the familiar sparkle in his eye that was no doubt seen as uncharacteristic by his companions. She didn't like where this was going. Her glance moved between Lord Stohess, his ashen-haired companion to his right, Mercedes, and Historia, who was doing a mostly-attentive job of toying with the brute of a man she nestled against – was she only pretending to not notice where Lord Stohess' attention was being led? She'd have to do something, and do it quickly. For Historia's sake.

"I must warn you, Smith," Master Cyrus said as he placed a hand on Mercedes' shoulder, "she's one of my prizes. Very expensive," he confided with a half-laugh. He brushed back a stray wave of Mercedes' hair and she bristled.

"I'm sure it will not surprise me," Lord Stohess smiled. "I feel like I've already worked champagne into my budget, lately, after all."

Master Cyrus made a surprised noise, followed swiftly by a knowing chuckle. "I'll…prepare a room then," he gave a toothy grin. "If you'll allow me a few minutes; we weren't expecting such a…an immediate response."

Lord Stohess waved his hand somewhat dismissively, "Whatever time you need, Master Cyrus."

Ymir watched Master Cyrus whisper something to Mercedes before he scuttled off, leaving her behind. Her mind rushed to find some way to stop what was happening. High-tempo percussion-based music began to get louder in the background, encouraging her to think fast.

"Well that settles it, then!" Mira looked in alarm to the voice coming from under and behind Alexandra, across from her. "Seems as though it's time to…'get to know one another better', as you said," he quipped, tipping his empty glass at Historia before setting it down. Sasha giggled and somehow managed to stand up.

There were a few voices of agreement, and most of the group began to draw out of the booth like a tide drawing out of a rockpool, leaving Lord Stohess and the ashen-haired youth still seated. Ymir was obliged to trail behind her 'acquisition', and was grateful for the group's lingering at the mouth of the horseshoe-shaped booth to give her more time. Sasha was already dragging her conquest away; the slight blond and brunette hung about nervously, looking around them, and Historia was talking in sweet tones to the broad-shouldered one she'd been sitting on, pointing at various suites revolving about the edge of the room.

Ymir let the giraffe of an Earl's son escape her clutches briefly. She licked her lips and looked rapidly between the booth and Historia. Mercedes still stood forlornly at the head of the table under the gazes of the two remaining men. It was then that she had an idea.

"One moment," she called behind her at Historia. Without waiting for a response she sidled up behind Mercedes with a smile. She leaned over to rest her chin on the shorter girl's shoulder and said, without lowering her voice, "Thought I'd wish you luck on your big night – but don't you think this is all a little unfair?"

"'Unfair'?" the ashen-haired one queried, as she figured he would.

Ymir looked mock-embarrassed, "Oh, well, I was only referring to her price. I mean… I don't think it fair to charge the price of gold," she flicked one of the coins strung on chains cascading from her brassiere, "when all you're going to get is a painted clod. If it's return on investment you're after, surely it's better to go with what's tried and true," she tipped her head Historia's way as she turned to leave, not needing to see the effect of her words.

"Excuse me?" Mercedes was sneering at her back.

Ymir did not turn back; she felt a body move between her and Mercedes and shortly, the sound of Mikasa's uncharacteristically loud, implicit voice, "More drink, Lord Stohess?"

She could just about hear him clear his throat, and then say, "No. No, my Peony, we were just…"

Ymir smiled to herself as her concentration returned to Historia. She was a little unsettled to find the petite, hourglass-waisted blonde frowning at her as the two tall men stood talking to themselves behind her, eyeing them.

Historia took a step forward to meet her and hissed, "Ymir! What was that about? That's terribly unkind to imply she's spoiled goods. It's not fair to do a thing like that!"

Ymir's smile dropped and she felt something in her give way. She leaned over and whispered, "It was for you. Don't you see? It's his last visit. You should have one last night with him, not with that hungry wolf," she gestured with her eyes to the blond man.

She was surprised to see Historia's face become pained, and even moreso when she surreptitiously grabbed her hand and squeezed tight. Her own eyes darted from side to side and she bit her lip, as if debating her words. Then she intoned, "You are the blind one, Ymir. If I have a chance to be with you – it could be in front of an unwashed stable-muck for all I care – I will gladly take that over ten Lord Stohesses."

The two stared at one another for a long moment. Ymir thought she might crumble to the spot. Historia had never said such things to her – such things…that mirrored her own daily, nightly thoughts so well they may as well have been her own. She wanted to kiss her right then and there but the bulky blond man was calling at them, and Historia was giving her a small, sad, reassuring smile and releasing her hand, turning, reforming her expression into something resembling gentility, and calling back gaily to him. And Ymir, as always, followed, trying to do the same but making poor work of it, reduced to understudy.

* * *

Mercedes finally felt Ymir was out of reach and dragged her eyes away to cut a glare at Mikasa, who was clearing away the empty glasses. Seeming to detect her, she looked up and uttered, "Pick your battles, and moreover, the timing of them." She tipped her head almost imperceptibly in the direction of the two remaining men, which made the silver tails of her _kanzashi_ wave and tinkle.

The tray perfectly balanced on her long fingers, she moved away. Mercedes tried to calm herself down, knowing she was right – this was her best opportunity to try to ensnare some poor soul into helping her get out of here – she couldn't waste it. She had to focus. She watched the two slighter young men – the blond and the brunette – moving away, and the brunette split away from and panic his friend to follow Mikasa, and used the observation to take two more calming breaths before returning her attention to the table. Her gaze slid up the length of the table before rising to take in the two men. The slightly younger, ashen-haired one to the left looked somewhat awkward, which didn't surprise her, while Lord Stohess continued to stare at her. She tried not to shift under his gaze.

_So,_ she thought, _which of you is it to be?_

As if detecting her thoughts, the two men glanced at each other uncomfortably. If she understood what little of the dynamics she'd seen, she was surprised this second man had the gall to still be sitting here when Lord Stohess, of all people, seemed to have picked what he wanted.

It was aggravating her, not having his name, and the silence was beginning to grow oppressive, so she said, "Lord Stohess – I've had the pleasure of hearing your name already," she looked at the second man, "but not that of your companion."

"Excuse my manners, Mercedes," her name rolled and curled on his tongue in a way that couldn't help but please her with its correct pronunciation. He fabricated a smile and sat back in his seat. He gestured with one large hand to his companion, "Mr Kirstein."

She quirked a smile, "Do men not have first names here?" she folded her arms and shifted her weight.

Lord Stohess' expression mirrored hers. "You'll have to earn that."


	7. Chapter 7: Thirst & Hunger

**An Introductory Note from the Author:** After careful consideration and in response to reader comments, for the sake of clarity I have reverted all characters' names to their cannon versions/spellings regardless of whether that name was historically/geographically common at the time. (For those interested, the originally-conceived tweakings are on my Tumblr account.) The gents tend to refer to one another by surname. Hope this helps!

**'Flowers' revealed so far:** Iris - Ymir; Peony - Mikasa; Lily - Historia; Poppy - Sasha. 

* * *

**Chapter 7: Thirst &amp; Hunger**

_(Armin Arlert, Sasha)_

Arlert watched with increasing alarm as Yaeger grew further away – his friend's attempts to halt the Asian serving-girl were proving futile but he didn't seem deterred in the slightest. Arlert cast his eyes about the area, watching as his friends were drawn in different directions by the women: Hoover and Braun with the Iris and Lily, Springer with the Poppy. He felt exposed; other, nameless women were starting to glance curiously at him while the men they browsed by or accompanied turned their backs or took on defensive, possessive expressions.

Lacking any other ideas, Arlert hurried to the bar. It was comparatively vacant and even more dimly-lit, and in that regard seemed like a safe harbor in this storm of impropriety. He was sweating like a laborer but didn't want to rid himself of his jacket or loosen his vest or necktie – he felt he needed to be ready to go at a moment's notice, hat be damned.

The female bartender he'd seen when they first arrived sidled over to meet him, her expression unchanging. Arlert took the fringed, green velvet stool on the end by the wall, and breathed a sigh of relief at not having to watch his back.

"Just water, please, with ice," he said when the blonde looked at him skeptically from beneath her thin eyebrows. When she turned away he saw that her hair was indeed cropped short rather than simply tucked and pinned, and from this position he could now see that she wore wide-legged trousers to match her waistcoat and tie.

"Nothing to your fancy?" she asked when she returned with his water. Oddly, her voice didn't carry the teasing, playful lilt he'd expected, nor was it scathing – simply curious. She laid down a pristine square of a serviette in front of him and placed the glass on top.

"I'm just here with friends. It's…not what I expected," he answered, trying to be noncommittal. Before the glass even had time to create a watermark, he picked it up again and took a long, grateful sip.

"I don't think it's what anyone expects," she said.

Arlert supposed that was true. If you'd told him yesterday there was a cabaret beneath a park in one of the suburbs, complete with a fully-stocked bar, opium, and revolving rooms, he would have laughed.

"You know…" the bartender began, "if you would rather, we _do_ have men as well as women, albeit not as many…"

Arlert actually choked on his water, of all things. He spluttered it all over himself and the bar, coughing profusely to the point that he had to thump his fist on his chest. "No," he tried, coughing again, "no, I –"

"I suppose not," she said. For the first time, her icy blue eyes sparkled with the faintest hint of amusement. She grabbed a rag and began to clean up his mess.

"I'm sorry," he said once he was able to speak properly. "I didn't mean to spill everywhere."

"It's just water," she shrugged. She folded the rag over and began again with the fresh side. "Quite new at all this, aren't you?"

Arlert hesitated, and looked warily at the woman over the rim of his glass. Although not a frequenter of such places, he was aware from his friends' tales that bartenders often had the additional specialty of weaseling out information from their customers, often without having any emotional investment in what they heard. Although logic told him to take heed of this, intuition encouraged otherwise. She didn't seem like a normal bartender – outside the fact that she was a woman.

"I am, I must confess," he said at length. What little ego he had rallied to his side and compelled him to add, "But it's not the environment that bothers me most."

"Oh?"

Arlert set down his water and looked to his right, searching for the booth he'd left. He located Smith – and Kirstein, oddly – being led with Mercedes by Master Cyrus toward the edge of the room, presumably to a suite. "Rather, that I expected more from my friend."

"Lord Stohess, you mean."

Arlert returned his gaze to her and nodded sadly.

She procured her own water glass from a shelf beneath the bar and sipped; he noticed the half-moon imprint of her coral lipstick on the rim as it disappeared once, twice, back into the thin curve of her mouth. Her voice sounded refreshed when she continued, "Do you know why he came here to begin with?"

Arlert frowned. Perhaps the information exchange went both ways? "No?" he queried.

She set down her glass and used some of the condensation on her fingers to tame a stray hair that'd broken free from her finger-waves. "When he returned from the War he came here for respite, as many do. I hadn't been here long. He happened upon Sasha, who was also new at the time – I'd hazard a guess to say they found solace in one another, in that sense. He's come here regularly ever since." She paused and nodded at a waitgirl who'd approached with a tray of empty glasses, and then looked back at him, "Be careful when you judge a man's pleasures. Would you rather your friend receive no comfort at all from the horrors he's seen?"

Arlert felt himself jump to the defensive like a hot coal had landed in his mouth. "There are plenty of other, nobler comforts to be found! And we've all seen our share of the horrors you speak of, and haven't needed to seek out places such as these."

Surprisingly, she didn't seem at all ruffled by his response. She looked at him cooly down her Roman nose, "Only because there hadn't been a 'first time' yet. Do you honestly think that all of your friends will never visit such a place ever again?" She stared at him, unblinking, for a moment longer, before moving away down the bar to take the new order.

Arlert considered her response, and with a sour feeling in his stomach that another sip of water couldn't assuage, knew she was right. One only had to glance around at the _other_ men that were here to know that visits of this nature were a sort of inevitability for men in today's society, and that it was presumptuous to think that his companions would somehow be exempt. He only wished he could be proven wrong.

* * *

Sasha tottered backwards, tugging the young man with her over the threshold of stable inner room to the revolving outer ring that contained the suites. They were both giggling and spluttering with laughter, which she considered a good sign. She hardly ever got the chance to be with someone who wasn't stuffy or creepy or timid. Although the temptation to be with Lord Stohess on his apparent final visit had been strong, she couldn't pass this up; besides, he never would have been likely to pick her. Their days were past.

"You are quite the eager one, aren't you?" he teased, stumbling after her through the bead curtains into the terracotta- and red-painted room.

"Quite!" she grinned, letting him come closer until she could hold his face between her gloved hands. _No, not in the way you think. Eager to be done, eager to stop thinking about it all, eager to give you want you want so I'm that much closer to another night being over,_ she thought.

The Cairo Suite was decked out in rich, warm hues designed to transport the occupants to the exotic bazaars of the Egyptian city, with low, backless seating and plenty of embroidered pillows on top of the carpets. Silks and strings of brass bells hung from the ceiling, and the smell of the patchouli incense was an additional delicate veil along with the music that leaked in from outside. It was Sasha's favorite suite due to the near-constant presence of the opium pipes, and she had a monopoly on the room as a result.

"Why don't you sit, my Lord?" she invited, pushing him slowly down to one of the upholstered benches.

He waved a hand, "No need for that – I've no title. My name's Connie Springer."

They rarely shared names willingly, much less full ones. Sasha felt the haste they'd experienced earlier begin to calm, and she tried to revive the frivolity. "You won't take what I offer? Very well then." She lowered herself to sit next to him, tucking her legs beneath her.

Springer's eyes – a bright shade of hazel that looked greener in the amber light of the room – were fixed on hers with an almost childlike quality. "And yours?"

"Pardon?"

"Your name."

Sasha was taken aback. With the exception of Lord Stohess so long ago, they never asked her name. She tried to play off her surprise by hooding her eyes and teasing, "Oh come now, you can't have forgotten already!" She shifted closer to him on her hands and knees and brought her face close to his, nearly touching his nose with her own, and tilted her head, "I'm the Poppy," she purred.

"No – no I mean your real name," he insisted with a laugh in his voice and a smile. He held her chin and pushed her face back an inch or two to see her better.

Sasha's expression fell. She felt genuinely confused about what to do, but also couldn't help but feel somewhat touched. It was the latter that made her apprehensive, fun and good-hearted as the young man appeared to be. _Remember the last time you cared,_ she thought. She sat back on her heels and looked away.

"What's wrong?" Springer asked. "Did I offend –"

"I don't think we need to worry about my name," she said at length. Sasha tried to retrieve something resembling seduction, "I'm more interested in helping you unwind, or…" she leaned over and behind her and procured the pipe of the hookah, "maybe do something else with our lips instead, huh?"

Springer eyed her and it warily. "Well, err, that's fine for now, but…I'm not forgetting about this! I will have your name by the end of the night!"

_Maybe you will, maybe you won't, _she mused sadly to herself. _For both our sakes I hope not._

Sasha brought the silver-tipped pipe to her lips and inhaled deeply, gratefully. Even as the initial wave of oblivion's taste began, she held her breath, crawling forward and reaching out until Springer's face was once again in her hand. She kissed him and all too easily opened his mouth with hers, exhaling ever so gently. Catching on quickly, Springer inhaled as she drew back, their lips parting. Smoke curled from hers and she finished the rest by puffing out a quick 'O' in the air that dissipated between them, like a dropped veil. They smiled.

It didn't take much for her to pull him with her when she leant back, reclining on the pillows and the suddenly loud scratching and crunching sounds of her skirts. She held the pipe to him, let him drag its contents into his airways for a moment, and then sampled it again for herself. _Come quickly, oblivion, before he asks me anything else. Tie my tongue. Sate my hunger._


	8. Chapter 8: Give & Take

**An Introductory Note from the Author:** After careful consideration and in response to reader comments, for the sake of clarity I have reverted all characters' names to their cannon versions/spellings regardless of whether that name was historically/geographically common at the time. (For those interested, the originally-conceived tweakings are on my Tumblr account.) The gents tend to refer to one another by surname. Hope this helps!

**'Flowers' revealed so far:** Iris - Ymir; Peony - Mikasa; Lily - Historia; Poppy - Sasha.

* * *

**Chapter 8: Give &amp; Take  
**  
_(Erwin Smith)_

Smith watched Kirstein be seated by Mercedes on one of the chaises, and reflected on his decision to suggest Kirstein come with him. He had only been half-surprised by the other young man's subjugation of the pecking order – while he hardly expected any of the others to stand between him and his choices, there had been signs over the years that Kirstein might be the one to butt heads with him one day, and here it was. Interesting though it was that it would be here of all places, Smith couldn't help but feel excited by the prospect of turning this to his advantage.

He smiled, watching the scantily-clothed Spanish girl toy with Kirstein a little more. She was doing an artful job of relieving him of his dinner jacket. _Let him have his fun, for a moment anyways,_ he thought. _Soon it'll be my turn._

"Sir?" Cyrus queried, reminding Smith of the task at hand.

Smith nodded. He spoke softly, "As I've mentioned, I anticipate this to be my last visit. Of course, that also means that our bargain will reach its final stages. I trust you're prepared?"

Cyrus looked dismayed; he lowered his flat blue eyes and shook his head. He shrugged and held his arms wide, nervous laughter crackling his low voice as he said, "I'll have to be! I'm not the type to go back on my word, no matter what kind of establishment I run. And besides, you've settled the debts – I'm merely a roof at this point. But erm…" he looked to one side at Mercedes. "This one. Should I anticipate…?" he trailed off. His face was back to reluctance.

Smith also looked. He passed his gaze down her body, following the sinuously-draping lines of the gold chains from her hair to her shoulders to her torso, and down to the garters around her thighs and farther still, right to her ankles where the coins on those chains jingled as she unconsciously flexed her feet. Normally he was in the habit of waiting until afterward to settle things with Cyrus, believing that business often spoiled the fun, but considering this was the first time he would actually participate in buying the maidenhood of one of the Carousel's girls – not to mention the other pricetags that hung from her – things would have to be handled a little differently. However, he was fairly confident that the return on investment wouldn't be an issue. And even if, by some strange stretch of the imagination, it wasn't, it was the last night after all.

Smith smiled at Cyrus, and fished into the inside pocket of his jacket to procure a heavy, velvet drawstring bag. Cyrus' eyes lit up at the sight of it. "I believe you should anticipate everything," Smith said. He handed the fist-sized bag over to the older man.

Cyrus' stubby hands untied the drawstring and wormed into the sable-colored folds. With a pinch, he pulled out part of a coil of large pearls. He made an exasperated, amazed noise. They vanished almost as quickly as they'd emerged and Cyrus looked around furtively.

"Do take a few minutes to inspect it, if you must, but I trust you'll find that token satisfactory," Smith said. "The jeweler's certificate is also included – South Sea, gold luster, smallest at nine millimeters, largest at twenty."

"Smith," Cyrus began.

"I believe that will cover your asking price for her virtue, and more. Of course, if you agree, I'd like the occasion to give it to her myself. She should be able to wear it for at least one night."

After a moment's pause, Cyrus handed over the bag. Smith replaced it in his pocket. He looked up at the entry of both a waitgirl and a large African man in Arabic costume, presumably a eunuch. The waitgirl carried a tray complete with two bottles of champagne and two flutes.

"Well, I take this as my cue," Cyrus said, the joviality and volume returning to his voice. "Enjoy your champagne, gentlemen!"

Smith returned his attention to the Emerald Suite – true to its name, it was decorated lavishly in the style of a harem interior, with deep emerald green fabrics complimenting the mahogany furniture – four chaise lounges set in an angled square around a low table, heavily-carved Moroccan screens softening the corners – and matching the leaves of the orchids printed on the wallpaper. Amber-glassed pierced lanterns hanging at various heights above the center of the room were the only light, but they helped Mercedes stand out in an impressive way, as if she were covered in gold dust.

She was approaching him now, in fact, her kohl-lined eyes focused on his own. "About that 'earning of names'," she said. She stopped in front of him and ran her hand down his tie, untucking it from his waistcoat, "Shall we get on with it?"

He smiled at her, inhaling deeply the _chypre_ scent on her skin and letting it linger in his nose when she walked away again to begin uncorking one of the champagne bottles. Smith made himself comfortable on the chaise next to Kirstein's. A casual glance in the other man's direction showed him still focused on the woman and not yet made uncomfortable by Smith's presence.

"Would either of you like a drink?" she asked. The champagne cork popped into the air and she set the bottle back on the tray, taking the entire thing from the waitgirl, who left.

"Why not," Smith agreed.

Mercedes and the African man moved through the chaises until they stood beside the low table. Smith watched with interest as the African wordlessly knelt in the middle of the table and she set the tray beside him, and then climbed onto it herself. With the African's help, she wrapped her legs around his waist and lowered her body until she hung outward, perfectly horizontal, with her loose hair cascading off the table and so nearly touching the men's knees. With one hand she swept aside the coin-chains away from the smooth part of her ribs just below her brassiere. She then placed the two champagne flutes in this small space, keeping them still with two fingers on their bases. Her other arm remained outstretched, touching nothing.

The African poured champagne into the flutes and once they were full, Mercedes carefully removed her fingers. Similarly, the African no longer held her aloft – he raised his hands and kept his eyes diverted. Though Smith could detect the tremble in her muscles by the way her hair quivered and the fact that he could see her pulse creating ripples in the champagne, the glasses did not topple with her breathing.

"Impressive," he said.

"Quite," Kirstein agreed.

Her red-painted lips curled into a satisfied smile, and the men retrieved their glasses. She gracefully lowered herself and withdrew from the African who, trick over, retreated from the room. Mercedes reclined on the table and watched them sip. "So, two of you. Am I in for a treat or a rivalry?"

Underneath the playfulness of her voice Smith detected that it was a genuine question. Whatever these women did now, they were still women: they'd come from a variety of backgrounds and just as any non-working-girl had concern for her own wellbeing, they did, too. And whatever it was that men like him sought from them, it was no excuse to deny them honesty. This didn't have to be a world of purely 'take'.

"The former, I'm sure," Smith said, hoping she would pick up on the genuine attempt at assurance in his voice.

But he knew he had to return his attention to Kirstein; he could feel his eyes on him and indeed, when he turned to his left, they were staring at him over the sip of champagne that so matched them. He tried to figure out what was behind them – was it exclusively judgment, or was there also curiosity?

"As I told you, Jean, I like to share. I do. You've known me on the battlefield and since then, as a friend. I'm sure your opinion of me wasn't so different from that of most – upstanding citizen, the epitome of honor – and equally, I'm sure it's changing now. I won't attempt to deny that change. We all have our vices – some just take longer to discover theirs."

"And yours…yours is this?" Kirstein asked.

Smith smirked as he confessed, "I was unfortunately slapped with numerous varieties of 'this'." Images ran through his mind of all the things he'd been introduced to and enjoyed over the years, the things he'd researched surreptitiously in his spare time, the fantasies he'd had. "However, though I like to share," he beckoned to her and, cautiously obliging, Mercedes slinked across the gap between table and chaise to sit half-beside him, half-on him, "there is one thing you must understand. There are some things I like to keep for myself." He trailed his fingertips up the smooth plane of her exposed thigh, catching on the chains that formed the delicate garter there and following the one that acted as harness ever-upward, parting what little silk remained around her waist in the process. "I'm sure we can come to an arrangement that suits us both."

Kirstein's eyes rose from following Smith's hand on her thigh. He swallowed, cleared his throat, and then took another sip of champagne. Smith smiled knowingly to himself. "You mean you'd like to be first," Kirstein surmised quietly. His eyes went back to Smith's hand settling into the crook made by her thigh and hip.

Smith sipped his own champagne and set the flute aside on a side table. "Yes, though you've hardly much choice in that regard, since I'm the one who paid Cyrus' asking price."

In the pause that followed, his and Mercedes' eyes met. Understanding washed over her face and slowed her movements; her eyes lowered, and she glanced at Kirstein ever so briefly before gently rising and rearranging herself to sit astride Smith's lap, facing him. Smith procured the drawstring bag again and pulled out the long, heavy rope of pearls before tossing the bag aside on the table. The lariat cascaded from his palm and through his fingers between them into their laps; it was likely nearly as long as she was tall and he doubled the single strand before taking both ends and holding it above her head. With a sort of reverence Mercedes took hold of her hair at the nape of her neck and lifted it away; Smith hung the lariat around her neck and passed the loose ends through the loop he'd made, letting the remaining length tumble down her back. The golden luster of the gems warmed further as they lay against her skin.

To her curious face, he said gently, "Though it did cover _his_ asking price, I hope you consider it a gift that may go some way to covering yours." His fingers ran down her spine; the pearls tapped along his nails in tandem.

She reached behind her and drew one of the lariat's tails in front of her, running her fingers over the larger pearl at the end. Smith intuited that she had some idea of how much money was around her neck and that she'd likely never touched anything as valuable. Her sanguine lips parted; her breathing was deep and even.

"A payment is a payment," she murmured, "a physical thing traded for a physical thing. It is only immaterial gifts that can be traded for something as intangible as virtue. And how ironic that you would pay for such a transaction with pearls, a stone of purity and innocence."

Smith nodded once. "Then you both misunderstand and understand me, without realizing," he said. "Money may have bought it, yet it is ultimately but a symbol of what will be given later."

"Then I suppose I'm obliged to say you've won your prize," Mercedes said. Her fingers released the tail of the lariat and it slipped over her shoulder. Her hands were then smoothing up his chest, catching the lapels of his jacket and drawing them back.

He hummed a little, thinking of what was to come. "Or perhaps it's you that's won yours."


	9. Chapter 9: Night of a Hundred Stars

**An Introductory Note from the Author:** After careful consideration and in response to reader comments, for the sake of clarity I have reverted all characters' names to their cannon versions/spellings regardless of whether that name was historically/geographically common at the time. (For those interested, the originally-conceived tweakings are on my Tumblr account.) The gents tend to refer to one another by surname. Hope this helps!

**'Flowers' revealed so far:** Iris - Ymir; Peony - Mikasa; Lily - Historia; Poppy - Sasha.

* * *

**Chapter 9: Night of a Hundred Stars**

_(Annie, Christa, Mercedes [OC], Levi Ackerman, Eren Yaeger, Sasha)_

Annie finished loading up a tray of drinks and set them off with the waitgirl, and like a punctuation mark wiped up a single spilled drop with the side of her hand. She placed a hand on her hip and eyed the blond at the heel of the bar where she'd left him. He'd pretty much drunk his water already and was tipping the glass from side to side, watching the ice clink back and forth. Every so often he would look over his shoulder, searching for his companions though she suspected they both knew they wouldn't be seen again for some time.

_He needs to loosen up – he'll be sore in the morning if he spends all night so tense,_ she thought. As if they knew before her mind knew, her hands reached for a fresh shaker and some ice. _Besides, I could use someone new to talk to._

She stole glances at him, reading him as she would read a new cocktail recipe and already knowing how the end result would turn out. Without even knowing his name, she picked up on the Scotch whiskey in his bearing and added it to the shaker, followed by the Italian vermouth she saw in his eyes, and the dash of Angostura bitters she remembered detecting in his voice. She span the lid of the shaker closed and grasped it tightly between her hands, shaking it vigorously. After a minute, she plucked first the stem of a cherry out of her garnish tray, and then that of a chilled, shallow-bulbed cocktail glass. She dropped the cherry in the bottom of the glass and brought both it and shaker back down to him.

She placed the glass in front of him, unscrewed the shaker's lid and poured the orange-red Rob Roy. "Here. On the house," she said.

"Err, thank you, but I…"

"I think you'll like it," she added by way of explanation, "and I think you'll be here a while. Why not just try it?"

He looked up at her and for the first time, she saw the sweet, naïve worry in his eyes dissolve and in the process, felt as though she had also been seen for the first time. "I'll make you a deal," he said, surprising her.

"A deal?" she repeated, tucking the hair that had fallen over one eye behind one ear and in the process, running down the tapered silver bar of one of her earrings, brushing over the large pearl at the end. She saw his eye drawn to it and the self-consciousness she'd felt a moment previous resurfaced.

"If I sip, you answer a question," he said.

Annie was well familiar with games. But this wasn't coming from a drunkard. Curious despite herself, she nodded. "All right," she said, lifting her chin in challenge. She set down the used shaker and reached for her water. "Shoot."

She sipped as he sipped, the glasses falling at the same pace.

His eyes drifted ever so slightly to one side, presumably back to her earring. "You weren't always behind the bar, were you?"

"No," she said, quirking her eyebrows. "What gave that away?" But she knew.

"You're another of Lord Stohess' flowers – only his favorites wear pearls," he said, twisting the glass by its stem. "I don't think that happened because you pour a good glass of claret."

Although she should have suspected this line of inquiry, Annie felt it like a prod into an old wound. Not that she was too sad about what had happened – Lord Stohess had insured she wasn't cast out completely when she fell from favor, after all – but rather…rather, that it reminded her of what she'd overheard, what she knew was going to happen, possibly even tonight. It all compounded into this bitter feeling of being pitied.

"I am – was – the Crocus," she said lowly at length.

He sipped his cocktail again and seemed to like it as far as she could tell. "What happened?"

Annie blinked rapidly and breathed deeply in, looking up and down the bar. She regretted having agreed to this, but at the same time…no one had ever asked her. She'd narrated this story to herself over and over, and now that it came time to tell it she was tongue-tied. An unfortunately familiar feeling of defensiveness constricted her throat. Who did he think he was, anyway? It was none of his business. She grabbed her water glass and downed the last mouthful as though it were a shot.

"Do you always sip from the same spot on the rim?"

Annie froze and for the first time in the two years she'd been behind the bar, she dropped a glass – her glass – but was staring at him before it even hit the floor. Judging by his shocked expression, she figured her own must have become intimidating and so tried to compose it into neutrality, however futile that was. She used the act of cleaning up the broken glass to compose the rest of her body – she was heating up, as if she'd been found out or done something embarrassing.

"I'm sorry, I…" she heard him begin but not know how to continue.

"What is your name?" she demanded, more forcefully than she intended.

* * *

"Stop," said Springer, and ironically, the word felt like a link in a chain holding him back had been broken.

He took the pipe away from the Poppy's mouth with its smeared lipstick, and repeated the word over and over. He cast the pipe aside and wrestled himself upright; she slipped down his chest and onto the pillows they'd propped themselves against, looking up and him confusedly as her haze parted somewhat.

He took hold of her shoulders. "What is your name?"

"Does it matter?" she croaked and there was an unexpected melancholy to her voice.

He thought by asking yet again that it'd be obvious that it was, but apparently not. "Why won't you tell me?"

"Why do you care?"

"I want to know who I'm spending time with! Unlike some, I don't think you're here to just be used – I don't want to forget you," he said, surprising himself with the words as much as he appeared to surprise her.

Some of the clarity was back in her eyes, now. He let her go as she sat up, staring at him intently in disbelief.

"I don't want to forget you," he repeated in a whisper, since it finally seemed to grab her attention. He reached out to her face and pushed back one of the disheveled black feathers that had decorated her hair.

Her mouth parted, and she started to tremble. Her brow knitted and Springer saw her eyes begin to water as they lowered, searching through some unseen middle distance – perhaps a memory. Abruptly, she started to cry. A gloved hand went to her mouth, the pearls around her wrist glimmering in the amber light. "Sasha," she choked out. "My name is Sasha," she sobbed, doubling over and allowing him to uncertainly take her in his arms.

* * *

"Nice to meet you," Annie said, having regained some of her cool. "My name is Annie," she added as she poured herself a new glass of water.

Reluctant – no, she had to be honest; as scared – as she felt by the prospect of telling him, she couldn't ignore the fact that he had unknowingly passed her one test: he had picked up on the way she always drank from the same part of the glass. No one else ever had. Hard as it was to believe, she knew it was a sign – he was special. And now…now she had to follow the sign and see where it led.

"How's the Rob Roy, Mr Arlert?" she asked, trying his name out on her tongue.

"Good, thank you. You were right."

He took another sip; he was almost halfway done and Annie looked at it like the sands of an hourglass running out, as if it represented the finite window of opportunity she had to find out what she needed to know from him and he from her – even though she was sure neither of them had the faintest idea what they were looking for.

She shrugged to herself. "A deal's a deal, I suppose," she said, thinking back to his question. "I used to perform in a seasonal revue around Christmas, the 'Nuit d'une Centaine Étoiles' – Night of a Hundred Stars, as a chorus girl, nothing special. That's how I originally met Lord Stohess. But, I was never suited for this life – I'm not sure why he took an interest in me to begin with – and it wasn't long before Master Cyrus wanted to 'retire' me."

"That makes it sound as though they treat you like show horses," Arlert said with a tinge of regret in his voice.

Annie replaced clean wine glasses on their shelf on the wall behind the bar, bulb down. "In many ways we are, but…" she glanced at him and as if he detected her unspoken chide, he sipped his drink again as though paying a toll. She turned to face him, now empty tray held in front of her. Her head tipped to one side. "You have to understand, while on the surface this may appear to be solely a man's world, it is also the women's."

* * *

Christa felt Ymir's hand on her own more hotly than she felt Mr Braun's mouth on her neck. She glanced to one side, found Ymir eyeing her with hooded eyes from her position on the floor even as she took the Earl's son's member into her mouth yet again. Christa flushed and trembled, and disguised it with a hum deep in her throat. Gently, she pushed her partner away with a smile; seeming to detect her plan, Ymir also broke away, though she continued to stroke him with one hand. Christa could feel Mr Braun's hand finding its way under her petticoats, discovering her lack of stockings, strong fingers parting her thighs.

Christa lowered herself until she lay fully on her back on the couch, and reached for Ymir. Ymir was already leaning toward her and, much to the men's delight, kissed her without reservation. Did they understand, she wondered? Could they know that their delight was merely a convenience, an excuse, for their own? Her thoughts became jumbled; she kissed Ymir as though it was the only way she could even begin to seek answers much less find them.

* * *

"We may have come here due to a variety of misfortunes, and exist in a world that has very clear hierarchies and a guiltless, blatant commerce, but that doesn't mean that the exchanges are all one-way," Annie said. She thought of the conversation she'd overheard between Lord Stohess and Master Cyrus, the knowledge of his plan – why he bought them, what he was going to do with them – jagged inside her like a piece of swallowed glass; a secret she'd kept from the other women. "Men take their pleasure, but so do women. Only, ours can take a different form, and it's not as though we don't discover something about ourselves on occasion."

* * *

_Just think of home, _Mercedes thought.

But it was hard to think of home. Lord Stohess had insisted that she sit astride Mr Kirstein's lap while he stood behind her, providing gentle and insistent ministrations to her sex. Though she had recognized the same initial apprehension in his face that she had felt tightening her own, soon the soothing hues of the suite and Lord Stohess' equally pacifying and tempting words to them both had eased that apprehension.

At Lord Stohess' whispered, "Was there something you wanted? I know there is; why don't you come and get it?", the man beneath her had untied the satin bow that did a poor job of holding her breasts in place and, caressing them, leaned forward to kiss her.

Though some distant part of her figured Lord Stohess must get some voyeuristic enjoyment from this, Mercedes was more consumed by the alien and exciting notion that she no longer cared. In that kiss, none of it mattered.

She only half-heard Lord Stohess murmur, "I'm so glad the three of us found one another." How could he have known she and Kirstein wouldn't revolt at the very notion of what they were doing? She felt him tug ever so slightly, perhaps unintentionally, on the lariat and it tightened a little around her throat. "I think I'll call you my Orchid, in honor of this."

* * *

Annie placed a trio of Singapore Slings on a waitgirl's tray and watched them disappear into the smoky room. She felt the narrative of her life – of all their lives – being pulled out of her like a ribbon she'd swallowed entire long ago. "It's not as though we never receive any reward, or keep ourselves from feeling anything. We know where we are."

* * *

Ackerman looked up at the brief, mistaken entry of another couple into the Moonlight Suite, a frustrated grimace pinching his features as he barked at them to take their drunkenness elsewhere. It only served to remind him of where he was and what he was forced to endure in order to see Petra.

"Hey," she said gently, her soft hand turning his head to look back at her. Her smile relaxed him. "Eyes here."

He saw love in her eyes. It'd taken him so long to realize it wasn't a ploy – that she genuinely let herself care for him despite her situation – despite his. It was the most precious thing he'd ever encountered and he was determined to keep it.

"Soon. Soon I promise I'll get you out of here," he said, smoothing a hand over her leg that lay across his lap. "I've almost saved enough."

Her smile took on a sadder taint. "I know. But…why not ask Lord Stohess –"

"No," he said fiercely. "I don't want him to have anything to do with you. You're mine."

* * *

At his request, Annie served Arlert another glass of water. She watched him fish the cherry out of the bottom of his glass and pop it into his mouth, and unexpectedly, this made her smile, albeit briefly. He looked back up at her like a boy listening to a bedtime story and she continued, "We know what we can do – while often that may be little, sometimes it can mean the world."

* * *

Yaeger hung back a little, mostly in confusion, at the Peony's warning. They were in one of the darker portions of the large hall after she had headed straight for a smaller booth, where a gentlemen with a bushy beard was getting too rowdy with a dancer. Yaeger himself was a little alarmed when he saw the man grab a handful of the girl's dark hair and tug it violently in an attempt to bring her face to his lap.

Next, he saw the Peony pull something out of her kimono and slip into the booth beside the man, and he was just close enough to hear her as she threatened lowly, "That is not how we do business here. If you were looking for a common whore to abuse, you are in the wrong establishment. Let her go." Startled, the man did so. "I suggest you've had enough for the night."

Though the man spluttered some kind of objection, he did indeed get up and maneuver his way out of the booth and blustered past Yaeger. With one more concerned glance at the sobbing girl, the Peony also stood, and Yaeger saw her tucking a small blade back into the folds of her kimono.

* * *

"Lord Stohess creates a garden where no light shines. He did that by purchasing us. But what is more powerful: the man who has money to part with, or that which makes him part with it?" Annie queried, retrieving Arlert's empty glass.

"I see what you mean," he acknowledged. He stared thoughtfully into the translucent landscape made by the ice floating in the top of his glass.

Annie took his contemplative pause to clean up a few more things, eyeing the room to gauge the likely demand. It was emptying, slowly but surely.

"Did you love him?"

Annie looked up in surprise at the question, and then around to see if anyone else had heard him. Fortunately, they were alone. She laughed briefly, even though his expression told her his question had been a serious one. "Oh, no. An appreciation, maybe, or admiration, or gratefulness, but never that. Don't you think that a little too romantic for someone like me?"

"I suppose," he agreed.

She wasn't sure how to take that. To distract herself, she added, "Though I know some have. Despite everything I said, this place still has the power to ruin as well as comfort."

* * *

Sasha was consumed by the memory of Lord Stohess' first visit – that night she'd uncertainly taken him to the Moonlight Suite, the dreams and fears they'd shared under the star-painted indigo ceiling, the solace they'd found in one another. They'd talked wistfully about how flowers picked from a garden were saved from the ravages of their natural world. It hadn't been long after that he'd started giving them names, choosing flowers. And yet…and yet it'd been so long…were they never to be saved? Had it all been a dream? Had it – had she – not mattered to him in the slightest?

She sobbed into Springer's chest. "He forgot me." She repeated it over and over; the more she repeated it and the more she cried, the better she felt. She heard him whispering soothing noises in her ear as he stroked her hair.

"I won't," he said.


	10. Chapter 10: Shared Interests

**An Introductory Note from the Author:** After careful consideration and in response to reader comments, for the sake of clarity I have reverted all characters' names to their cannon versions/spellings regardless of whether that name was historically/geographically common at the time. (For those interested, the originally-conceived tweakings are on my Tumblr account.) The gents tend to refer to one another by surname. Hope this helps!

**'Flowers' revealed:** Iris - Ymir; Peony - Mikasa; Lily - Historia; Poppy - Sasha; Crocus - Annie; Orchid - Mercedes [OC].

* * *

**Chapter 10: Shared Interests**

_(Armin Arlert)_

Arlert peered up at the clock – entirely too small and with too ornate of a face to be practical for the imbibed to possibly read – and was anxious to discover that it was approaching Three o'clock in the morning. How long had they been here? Who knew.

The other guests of the Carousel had almost gone. Devoid of most of its occupants – patrons and entertainers alike – the lingering notes of music and the lights and colors seemed like multiple filaments in a large light bulb, every so often glowing or sparking to remind his senses that he was awake. However, his companions still had not emerged and he was inclined to suspect that they were the ones dreaming.

"Do…people stay here overnight?" Arlert cast his voice out to the distant figure of Annie; she seemed to have just finished cutting off the gentlemen who had been propping up the bar ever since Arlert arrived. He trundled away and the two of them were left alone.

"Not patrons typically, no," she called.

_I have to do something,_ he thought. _It's one thing to have come here to begin with, but another completely to not be home for the night. Yet…_

He looked at Annie, how she finally loosened her tie and gathered up the rags she'd used over the course of the night, tossing them in a pile on the floor and moving on to scrape the colorful and bruised remains of various fruit into a pail. He'd enjoyed talking to her; could probably talk for another few hours had this been different. He wished there was another way for them to continue their conversations that didn't require him coming down here. Did the women who worked here ever leave? Were there dormitories of sorts beneath the elaborate engineering that supported this place?

But if he was the only sober one left, it was up to him to rally them and get them home. Arlert stood.

"It's time, I suppose," Annie mused. He thought he detected a hint of regret in her voice, buried underneath the tiredness.

"I enjoyed our conversation, though," he offered, venturing down the bar to be closer to where she stood. "I hope I didn't bore you."

"On the contrary," she said and turned to him. She tucked her hair behind her ear and sipped from the same spot on her water glass. She didn't look at him as she set it down and continued, "You should collect your friends. I suppose we won't see each other again – not unless you were to come back here, at any rate."

"We don't know that for sure," he attempted a smile.

But rather than agree or disagree, she looked at him levelly before saying, "Goodbye, Mr Arlert." Her voice was somewhat warm, even if her face did not betray it.

He nodded and stepped away. He decided the best course of action would be to find help for the rallying – no doubt the poor drivers were still waiting.

"In answer to your question," Annie called out surprisingly loudly and hurriedly, making him look over his shoulder, "yes – from the same spot, every time." She lowered her gaze under his own. "I didn't think anyone would notice."

He thought of the coral half-moon on the rim of her glass. "Well, someone did," he smiled more broadly and turned again.

It didn't take long for the coatgirl to retrieve his hat, and Arlert made his way up the curve of the stairs, casting an eye down at the pale figure of Annie below. He would have to find some other way to talk to her again.

The entrance door at the top of the landing was wordlessly opened for him and Arlert stepped out into the orderly, calm sanctum of the burgundy-carpeted corridor. The door closed behind him and the lack of stimulation was blissful – silent, fairly scentless, evenly- and blandly-lit. He paused and breathed in deeply in relief. If he had been a less responsible individual he might have left the others – this familiar interior, however small and purposeless it was, reminded him how much strain he'd been under for much of the night and how dearly he wanted to be gone from it.

Shortly, though, the wonderful quiet was broken by footsteps coming down the wooden stairs – at least two pairs, he gathered – and then voices. One, the loudest, was a woman's. Arlert stood to one side and waited curiously. What was a woman doing down here, much less at Three in the morning?

"Lady Collingston, please," came a softer but pleading male voice.

Lady Collingston? Arlert felt an unidentified sense of dread and confusion bloom in his chest and he struggled to recall where he'd heard that title so recently.

"Oh come now Moblit, you think I don't know what I'm doing!" the woman's voice replied gaily.

"Respectfully, no, my Lady, I do not."

"I'm telling you, Cyrus sent word," she said implicitly. "Meaning it's _time_, and I'm not out of bounds. I'm just here for business."

A pair of women's lace-up boots and the hem of a dark brown mink coat, followed by the tiers of a navy daydress, descended into the light; then came a leather-gloved hand with a drawstring purse dangling from a wrist. Finally a lowered head of chestnut hair – perhaps elegantly and precisely coiffed earlier in the day but more disheveled now – that lifted once the woman was in the corridor proper. She readjusted her glasses when she saw him, and her face broke out into a grin as wide as her arms lifted.

She laughed, "Aha! Mr Arlert! What timing! I see you're the only one who appears to have survived."

Arlert looked back in horror, and then tried to give a nervous laugh. It was Smith's fiancée. "Lady Collingston – this – this is quite the surprise…" What on Earth was she doing down here?

His face must still have betrayed him, for she grabbed his wrist and shook it, "You musn't panic. I'm sure this looks very strange."

Arlert looked helplessly at the tall, mousy-haired young man who came into the hall after her, whom he now recognized as Lady Collingston's chauffeur. Deciding that Lady Collingston being out unaccompanied with her chauffeur late at night was the least of his troubles, he returned his attention to her. She held both his shoulders with a strong grip.

"Smith is expecting me," she said, taming her grin into an assured smile.

"He – he is?"

"Very much. And yes, I'm aware of his visits here and what 'here' is."

"I don't understand, Lady Collingston, forgive me."

Her warm brown eyes sparkled. "Then I see you're unfamiliar with the establishment of marriage." After observing his unalleviated confusion for a moment longer, she continued, "You can't be under any illusion that the engagement between myself and Lord Stohess is because of mutual adoration, surely? With our rank, who could afford such a complication?" One of her hands absentmindedly drifted to her chin, "I suppose that's rather ironic, come to think of it. The one thing we can't afford," she mused. Her cheer returned, "Anyhow – this means the best we can hope for is a partnership based on mutual _respect_, and shared interests."

Arlert fingered the brim of his hat. "Of course I'm aware of societal demands in this day and age, Lady Collingston," he said indulgently.

It was her turn to look confused. "Then pray tell what is it that's not understood?"

"I do not see how this place contains a 'shared interest'."

Her already-large eyes grew larger. "Oh," she said.

Moblit's gloved fingertips hovered over Lady Collingston's arm and he spoke lowly to her, "My Lady, it's just turned Three o'clock."

She jumped a little in surprise, "Oh! Well then yes," she waved him toward the entrance to the Carousel, "go fetch my prospective husband and," she turned to Arlert, "how many of you were there? Eight?"

"Yes?" he frowned.

She turned back to Moblit, "And the other seven of his bachelor party." Moblit hurried to comply but when he reached the door, Lady Collingston called out again, "Oh! And may as well give this to Master Cyrus should you see him." She fished out a thick trifold of papers with a wax seal and handed it to him. Yet again he headed for the door. "Oh!" He froze, his hand dropping from the door handle. "And if you do see Cyrus, make sure the girls don't see you seeing him!" Moblit assented tiredly and turned the handle, opening the door a crack. "Oh!" The door was pulled to. "And make sure a signed copy comes back to me!" Lady Collingston smiled, "That's all," she said sweetly. Moblit finally disappeared into the Carousel.

"He's going to bring them all himself?" Arlert checked.

Lady Collingston waved a hand, "I'm sure Cyrus has enough waitstaff to help. And fear not, there are carriages enough." There was a rare moment of silence, and then she turned on her heel a little. "I wonder if you might escort me back topside?" she suggested.

"Of course," Arlert said and offered his arm, gratefully going first up the stairs so that he could help her up after him. Each step seemed to bring him closer to a waking life.

"I would tell you," she said between steps, "what it is that Lord Stohess and I share an interest in, but I suspect he would much rather tell you himself. Might I suggest luncheon in a couple of days' time?"

Arlert would have preferred answers now, but it didn't seem as though he was going to get them. She was right, he conceded – no doubt Smith would like to explain himself, and there were things Arlert wished to say that were not suitable for Lady Collingston, no matter how involved she appeared to be.

* * *

**A(nother) Note from the Author:** Though I hope it'd be obvious, Lady Collingston is intended to be Hanji Zoe. :) Thank you to everyone who has stopped by to read and review! It means the world!


	11. Chapter 11: Suitable Arrangements

**An Introductory Note from the Author:** After careful consideration and in response to reader comments, for the sake of clarity I have reverted all characters' names to their cannon versions/spellings regardless of whether that name was historically/geographically common at the time. (For those interested, the originally-conceived tweakings are on my Tumblr account.) The gents tend to refer to one another by surname. Hope this helps!

**'Flowers' revealed:** Iris - Ymir; Peony - Mikasa; Lily - Historia; Poppy - Sasha; Crocus - Annie; Orchid - Mercedes [OC].

* * *

**Chapter 11: Suitable Arrangements**

_(Two days later; Armin Arlert)_

The carriage was nearing Smith's home. Over the course of the ride – some thirty minutes' worth due to the busy streets and where he lived in relation – Arlert composed his thoughts. The last two days had given him time to digest what he had experienced; although the enquiring portion of his mind had wanted to hear the accounts of the other men, the more sensible portion determined he didn't much want to know. Consequently, he'd not seen them since, and this imposed isolation had helped.

As promised, Lady Collingston's invitation to luncheon had arrived, and he had agreed to meet them. She had promised answers for Smith's behavior, but Arlert was only half-certain that he would get them. He had to be prepared with his own inquiries and confrontations – never his strong suit in the past, particularly when it came to Smith, but something he felt was very much needed and unlikely to come from another quarter.

The carriage turned a corner, its wheels rattling on the cobblestones. Arlert calmed the nervous patter of his heart by breathing deeply and watching the view beyond the window: they had turned into the circus now, with the green acreage of its park on the left and the gentle, long curve of the pristine apartments on the right, guarded by black-painted lampposts and short fences. Well-dressed couples and families were taking advantage of the beautiful day, strolling or picnicking, talking to one another on the steps of their homes. Spring flowers as bright as the women's dresses were being delivered.

He understood that it had been Smith's last adventure as a bachelor, and that such adventures typically weren't the kind of thing you could talk about in polite company thereafter. He also understood that brothels, cabarets, and the like were an undeniable part of the underbelly of any city and it was unreasonable to expect that the higher echelons of society wouldn't be patrons. Annie's warning to not judge a man for his pleasures, and her insight into what had driven Smith there in the first place, was a heavy weight in Arlert's chest.

What was it that disgusted him, exactly? Was it the place and the acts within it themselves, or was it the feeling of betrayal he subsequently experienced? Was it disgust, or rather, betrayal? Betrayal of what, exactly? Having been deceived…that there truly were no righteous human beings…that he really could not know anyone… Or, moreover, that there seemed to be some even grander purpose behind it all that would involve Smith's fiancée, a woman of good breeding and fortune, of all people. He could hardly imagine that this could get worse…

"Sir? We've arrived."

Arlert looked up, startled, at the open door of the carriage where his driver stood. Beyond lay the white-painted door of Smith's apartment that he'd kept ever since he'd returned from the war. As Arlert climbed out of the carriage, hat in hand, the brass knob of the door turned and opened to reveal a butler.

"Shall I wait, Sir?"

Arlert came to his senses. "Oh, no, Young. Return at Three o'clock for me – that should be fine. Thank you." The carriage door closed and Arlert ascended the short flight of shallow stairs.

"Welcome, Mr Arlert. It's good to see you again," the butler greeted.

Arlert passed into the foyer with its checkerboard-tiled floor and a maid took his hat with a curtsy. After shutting the front door, the butler led him past the staircase on the left and down the relatively narrow hall to the first door on the right, which was open.

"Mr Arlert, my Lord," the butler announced to the small dining and sitting room.

The foremost half of the long room, sage-colored room contained a round dining table for six covered in a cornflower blue cloth, with three places set with silverware that glinted in the flight from the bay window looking out from the front of the house. Smith rose from his seat to greet him, while Lady Collingston remained seated.

"I'm so glad you could come," Smith said warmly.

"Thank you for the invitation," Arlert said as he shook his hand.

"Please sit!" Lady Collingston gestured at the empty place. "I think there's a fair amount to talk about."

His thoughts from the carriage reemerged as he took his seat. The butler uncovered a tray of ridiculously small cold chicken sandwiches and even they managed to make his stomach sour. The smoked salmon and crackers made it worse. He looked away, from his vantage point able to see the other half of the room: a sitting area with two low settees, two full bookcases flanking the fireplace, a door to another room in the left corner and, on the left wall, a small desk with a lit lamp and what looked like recent business being attended to.

"You're wanting to know why."

Arlert looked up at Smith's voice. He wasn't smiling, exactly, but neither was his expression accusatory. He seemed unrealistically focused on buttering a cracker and, using his fish fork, folding a layer of smoked salmon on top. He paused before he took a bite, his eyes meeting Arlert's.

"Yes," Arlert conceded. He realized Lady Collingston had poured them tea and was offering the cream. He held up his hand in a polite 'no'. "It's only because…the entire experience struck me as out of character for you." He wondered if he should mention his conversation with Annie – would it reflect badly on her in any way that she had told him all she had? "I never thought of you as the type to frequent such a place, much less have such a stake in it." He averted his gaze by serving himself a couple of sandwiches despite his lack of appetite.

There was a pause, and the clink of a knife being set on china. "As I told Kirstein, I will not pretend to be above vice, and I will not ask forgiveness for it. However, what you have not seen is the atonement I have attempted to make that is finally coming to fruition today. I'm glad you'll be a witness to it."

Lady Collingston hummed into her teacup. "Speaking of, I believe our timing was spot on in that regard." She set down her cup into its saucer and craned her body toward Smith. "Is it Noon yet?"

Smith procured a pocketwatch and opened it. "Almost," he said, and put it away. At Arlert's frown he said, "You have not been our only guest, and there are three remaining appointments."

"Am I only to receive riddles?" Arlert commented with dismay.

Distantly, he heard the doorchime. Smith smiled. Both he and his fiancée – whom Arlert still couldn't believe was here so close to their wedding much less unchaperoned much less involved in all of this – wiped their fingers and dabbed their mouths on their serviettes and stood.

Arlert made to stand too but Lady Collingston waved a hand at him, "Please, no need. Carry on." She smoothed the brown tweed of her skirt and stood eagerly to attention just inside the doorway. Smith rounded the table and stood in front of it, and Arlert angled himself to better see between them. He heard the front door open and close, and was surprised to see what appeared to be satisfaction and excitement on the couple's faces.

"Miss Mikasa, my Lord, my Lady," announced the butler.

It took Arlert a moment or two to recognize the young woman who was shown into the room, but he sat back in shock when he realized it was the Peony. With her face free of the theatrical cosmetics he'd last seen her in and dressed in a more modest navy kimono, he barely recognized her. Her dark eyes alighted on him briefly and continued to scan the room; nervously, she wiped a tray strand of hair behind her ear – the rest of it was in a practical knot at the nape of her neck.

"We're so glad you came!" Lady Collingston greeted and, making the entire situation even more surreal for Arlert, took Miss Mikasa by the arm and guided her to a free spot at the table, "Please sit! Would you like some tea?"

"Oh, no, thank you," she said and looked confusedly at Smith.

Without hesitation, Smith said, "This is my fiancée, Lady Collingston."

Lady Collingston beamed at her as she returned to her chair.

"I see," Miss Mikasa said as she also took a seat, a couple of places away from Arlert.

Arlert already felt awkward and could only imagine what she must be feeling, but a glance at her pale face showed a strangely taciturn expression. But moreover – why was she here? And why was he here to witness whatever it was?

"I know this must be confusing," said Smith as he walked to the other side of her, "and so let me also express my gratitude for your agreeing to meet. Did…Master Cyrus tell you anything?" He placed his hands behind his back.

Miss Mikasa looked down into her lap; Arlert could just about see that she had a small cloth-wrapped bundle with her that he hadn't previously noticed. "Only the time and address at which I was to arrive, and that I was to bring the hairpin you so kindly gave to me," she said quietly.

"I see. Well, then I should explain myself," Smith said. "I invited you here to make an offer."

"An offer?"

"Yes. Unbeknownst to you, when I gifted you with that hairpin, insodoing I was also signifying to Master Cyrus that – should you so choose – you could trade it for your freedom, so to speak."

Arlert thought again of all the pearls he'd witnessed that night, and called on what little knowledge he had of their worth. Was this truly possible? The women weren't slaves, exactly – in theory they could leave whenever they wanted.

"And where would you propose I go instead?" Miss Mikasa ventured. "I became part of the Carousel to support my family. That need still exists."

Arlert looked to Smith questioningly, and watched as his smile re-emerged – the kind one that he was more familiar with. A glance at Lady Collingston showed him that she was smiling too, biting her lip to stop herself from speaking.

Smith pressed a knuckle to the edge of the table, running along it. "With Lady Collingston's help, I have managed to secure a position for you at a certain restaurant, paying decent money. You would not need to work in the entertainment industry ever again." After a moment's pause, he added, "This is of course your choice. If it's something you would like, you need only return the hairpin to Master Cyrus and take my letter to your new employer."

Miss Mikasa looked up; her eyes were narrowed, but not in an angry way. "Why are you doing this?"

"To atone," Smith said. "Is it a crime to want to provide someone with a better life, in gratitude?"

Arlert wondered if his face matched Miss Mikasa's – the way he could see her processing what she had been told, reining in her reaction while she considered it.

"I gratefully accept your offer," Miss Mikasa said at length as she stood. Her head was lowered.

"Wonderful!" Lady Collingston exclaimed, her hands in their lace tea gloves even clapping a couple of times.

Smith moved toward the desk in the other half of the room as his fiancée burst into chatter, and Arlert became lost in his thoughts. Had Smith done this for all the flowers? Had Annie known this would happen? That aside – Arlert had to remind himself of the influence Smith and Lady Collingston wielded. Both of them were well-connected and had good money, and now that he thought about it, he seemed to recall Lady Collingston's leanings toward women's rights – had Smith become interested in it because of her, or had it been there all along? She had mentioned their engagement being more like a business partnership, so it seemed to be the latter. It stung a little to realize that he would have had such stimulating conversations with them both had he only thought to bring it up.

He glanced up – the three of them were beside the desk, and Smith was handing Miss Mikasa a small sealed envelope, which she tucked into the breast of her kimono. After a few more words, she was taking her leave of them all.

When he heard the front door close behind her, Arlert finally felt able to sip his now lukewarm tea and take a bite of a sandwich. Smith and Lady Collingston came into the room again, and she plucked a cracker from her plate.

"I'm so pleased," she remarked. "Placing two out of the seven so far isn't bad at all!" The cracker disappeared into her mouth. "And there's still two more to go," she added through a less than ladylike mouthful.

Arlert quickly did the math. "So, you've seen three of them already?"

Smith hummed an acknowledgement as he sipped his tea.

"Which two refused?" Arlert asked. It seemed an unlikely response to such a generous and rare opportunity.

"Chista and Ymir – or, as you know them, the Lily and the Iris," Smith answered. "And I support their decision. Independently, as their visits were separate, they both claimed that the Carousel was the only place where their affection for one another might be safe. As much as we are able to take steps forward on behalf of these women, unfortunately our power is not yet significant enough to offer them the world they want."

"Then we saw your latest find – the Spanish girl, Mercedes," Lady Collingston said as she piled salmon on another cracker. "Sent her to that painter in the east side. Said he could use a model. Not the most ideal of arrangements but it was the best we could do last-minute."

Arlert frowned at her tone. How was she so pleased to be involved in this? Knowing that her husband-to-be had carnal relations with all of these women at least once…marriage of shared interests or not, how could she be inclined to help them?

"Sasha will be the last, at around Three, but Annie is due next, at a quarter 'til," Smith said.

Her name wiped his mind clean like a slate. Unexpectedly, he found himself worrying more about her fate than anyone else's, more than the motives of these two privileged people. What was in store for her? Surely she would take the opportunity to leave, whatever it was? Should he stay, let her see him again? Would she be offended by his presence?

"Have you been able to locate anything else for Annie?" Smith asked Lady Collingston.

For once, Arlert saw her frown. She shook her head once, "Not yet, but I'm sure we can work something out." She poured more tea for her fiancé and sighed. "I can't believe it fell through. I'll be sure to give Mr Abbot a piece of my mind next I see him. I explicitly told him not to hire a secretary, that I had the perfect candidate lined up for him…"

"Like you say, I'm sure we can work something out," Smith assured her, but it did little to assure Arlert.

Her 'placement' had fallen through? What would happen now? How long would she have to remain at the Carousel? Though he reasoned that she had survived there for some time quite successfully, now that there was a chance for her to have a better life – strange as the circumstances might be – Arlert was anxious for her to be away from there.

The three of them spent the next twenty minutes or so chatting back and forth, as if this was no longer anything unusual. Arlert could only chime in half-heartedly – the wind had been taken from his sails – though he knew he should be taking the opportunity to quiz them both, find out more, unravel the remainder of the mystery, offer some solution for the predicament with Annie. He felt powerless.

A quarter to One came, and there was no doorchime. One o'clock came, and still none. The table had grown quieter and the luncheon abandoned. A quarter after, and no sign of her. No one commented on it, as if they understood what it symbolized.

By One-thirty Lady Collingston had excused herself to address some last-minute arrangements with the wedding in another part of the house and, being the good host Arlert knew him to be, Smith had invited him to his study to invite his opinion on his plans for his late father's estate. As they passed through the hall Arlert eyed the front door, willing the chime to sound.

* * *

**A(nother) Note from the Author:** A huge thank you, as always, to everyone who's taken the time to read and review!


	12. Chapter 12: Springs Eternal

**An Introductory Note from the Author:** After careful consideration and in response to reader comments, for the sake of clarity I have reverted all characters' names to their cannon versions/spellings regardless of whether that name was historically/geographically common at the time. (For those interested, the originally-conceived tweakings are on my Tumblr account.) The gents tend to refer to one another by surname. Hope this helps!

**'Flowers' revealed:** Iris - Ymir; Peony - Mikasa; Lily - Historia; Poppy - Sasha; Crocus - Annie; Orchid - Mercedes [OC].

* * *

**Chapter 12: Springs Eternal**

_(Armin Arlert)_

It was a quarter to Three. How they'd managed to fill the silence without speaking of Smith's arrangements with his favorites from the Carousel, Arlert didn't know. There had been no doorchime. Arlert had seen Smith glance at his pocketwatch a few times, telling him that despite his avoidance of the subject, he too was concerned.

But Arlert couldn't stand it any longer. "Do you suppose something happened? I'm surprised Annie isn't here."

Smith sighed and briefly closed his eyes, standing upright from where he'd leant over the blueprints spread over the forest green leather of his desk. He seemed grateful that Arlert had mentioned it. "I'm not sure. She was one of the ones I was most concerned about, as well."

Arlert recalled that his carriage would be waiting for him by now – Young was always early – and realized there wasn't much more for him to see, here, if Annie wasn't coming. Miss Mikasa had thoroughly demonstrated Smith's somewhat redeeming intentions and thus there wasn't a reason for him to see it demonstrated again.

"No doubt you've much to do with regards to the wedding," Arlert said by way of beginning his exit. "I should let you get on."

"I've barely lifted a finger to be honest," Smith confessed. "Zoe – Lady Collingston, that is – never seems to rest – she always seems to have a project to work on. But yes, I suppose I've kept you here long enough!" he smiled. "We'll see you at the wedding, of course?"

"Of course."

Arlert's next movements were in a haze; Smith had escorted him to the hall, where at some point his hat had been returned to him and he had asked Smith to pass on his goodbyes to Lady Collingston. It was surreal to be performing such everyday acts within the context of all that had happened. The fact that he had said very little, in the end, of his arguments was exhausting and it came down on him like a curtain when he stood on the steps outside Smith's apartment. A breeze passing over his face stirred him to the brightness of the present moment.

And there, at the bottom of the steps, was Annie, seemingly as surprised by him as he was by her.

"Miss Annie," he said, stunned.

She looked far less confident than he remembered her, and the effect was amplified by the rather shapeless plum coat that engulfed her petite form despite the pleasant weather. The matching cloche went some way toward hiding her face from him; he descended the rest of the steps in order to see her better. She was about his height, he discovered.

"Mr Arlert," she said, blinking at him. "I wasn't expecting you here." She looked down at the handbag clutched in her gloveless hands, "I'd hazard a guess that you weren't expecting me either."

For some reason, she made him bold again. The fog that he'd been moving through lifted enough that he felt comfortable broaching the subject, "Smith thought you'd decided not to come."

Her mouth, still with its coral lipstick, parted in surprise. She looked around her cautiously as though embarrassed to be caught here – for herself or on his behalf, he wasn't sure. "I…I wasn't sure there was any point to it."

"No point?"

Finally her face returned to the assured cynicism he'd witnessed before, back at the bar. "I'd overheard a couple of days ago that the…arrangement they'd made for me hadn't worked out. I didn't feel there was a need to continue to inconvenience Lord Stohess any longer. He's done enough for me." At his frown she continued, "To be honest, I don't think I'm suitable for much else than what I am now."

"I don't think that's right," he said. "I don't think any of it is right, in fact."

Annie lifted her head and her eyes sparkled in the sun; the light gave them a sort of plea that he suspected she wouldn't allow herself to display. "Why?" he barely heard her whisper, and was surprised at the charge of her voice.

Arlert felt himself flush a little and held more tightly onto his hat. Despite this, he knew this was his chance to reach her. "He was saying how you were one of the ones he was concerned most about. He obviously cares for your welfare and I don't think it out of pity. Yes, what they'd originally had in mind fell through, but this isn't the end. There are so many other opportunities out there for you, if you'd think of them – if you'd allow them."

They moved aside to allow a couple with a pram to pass on the pavement. Annie didn't respond, merely fixed her eyes on his carriage not far away. He couldn't read her expression but it didn't seem alleviated by his words, which told him enough. A pair of songbirds passed overhead.

He knew this wasn't a conversation to have in the street of St Michael's Circus, but when would there be another opportunity? He couldn't stop himself. Arlert began again, "Would you really stay at –"

She suddenly looked at him, her eyebrows pinched and raised. "Do you need a wife?" she interrupted him, her voice quavering, seemingly unable to decide whether to be frivolous or pleading. He hadn't heard so much emotion in it since she had demanded his name two days ago.

"Pardon?" was all he could manage to mutter.

Her shoulders rose and she shook her head. "It's strange of me to say, I know, and quite improper, but – we need only have mutual respect, in this day and age, right? No one need know the rest. I could be useful to you. Didn't you say you were new to all this? I could ease that pressure. You'd fulfil your obligation to society, and you could do whatever you want, like me or not. I suppose it wouldn't be that different from what I do now, except I could see the sun."

Arlert's face was alarmingly warm. When he didn't respond immediately, Annie averted her eyes to her hands, shaking a little as she breathed in deep. He saw a barely-tempered sadness in her face.

"I'm sorry," she said after a moment. "Forgive me, that – that was a foolish suggestion. Don't let me ruin your prospects – I should focus on my own." Without looking at him she began to ascend the stairs as if for nothing more than to get away from him.

"You wouldn't be ruining my prospects," he found himself blurting, turning. "And it wasn't foolish."

Annie stopped a couple of steps above him and turned too. "No?"

She looked as though she didn't know what to do with this new information, and he decided that these few times that she had been taken off guard were when he liked her best. But what she had said – what she had offered – was it possible? She was right in a way, of course, but was it enough to even warrant contemplating? Would he be little better than Smith if he were to proceed with such a suggestion with no genuine feeling to base it on?

Yet…he wasn't devoid of feeling. There was a seed, there, that had perhaps been planted in their first conversation, and now – like the crocus through the last snows of spring – it was struggling to emerge. It was an unfamiliar sensation, but surely it was a good sign? Surely it was the best he – or anyone – could hope for? Oughtn't it be given a chance?

"You deserve to see the sun," he volunteered, and smiled at her.

As though coaxed out of her, gradually she smiled back at him too, testily.

Arlert calmed his unexpectedly heavy breathing. "You should go see Lord Stohess. Tell him that you and I should be fine on our own. I'll wait here."

Her smile was more confident now. "You seem awfully sure."

"Are you?"

"No, yet I'm fine with that, for once."

"Neither – and also – am I," he agreed.

With a broader smile Annie turned and ascended the rest of the steps and, within moments, was inside out of view.

Arlert was surprised to find that his smile didn't fade. He donned his hat and turned on his heel, heading to speak to his driver. All logic rallied against him in the face of what had just transpired – what he had just agreed to in not so many words – but he had never felt more certain about any other choice he'd made. Something told him that the risk would be worth the reward.

In the short distance between the apartment's steps and his carriage, Arlert was startled by nearly running into the Poppy – Sasha, he recalled. Her bright, curious face looked out at him from a rather old-fashioned, broad-brimmed straw hat decorated with faded silk flowers, and her brown eyes sparkled with recognition.

"Good afternoon," she said, and though she seemed to want to say more, presumably out of decorum she did not voice the source of her recognition. She dipped a curtsy instead and the pleats of her pale yellow skirt brushed her legs.

Arlert noted that instead of the pearls, the braided cord of a little drawstring bag hung from her wrist instead. He was fairly certain the pearls were inside, and wondered what safety Lord Stohess had secured for her. Something befitting their history, he hoped. He tipped his hat to her.

"A pleasant day, isn't it?" she quipped, and he enjoyed the way her natural charm came across unhindered by opium smoke, how clear her eyes were.

"Quite," he agreed, thinking back to Annie's own blue eyes. "It's going to be a beautiful spring."

* * *

**A Final Note from the Author:** I want to extend deep gratitude to everyone who has taken the time to read and review, and for sticking with this crazy idea to the end! It was only meant to be half this length, in all seriousness, and now here I am wondering about a sequel (or prequel). Anyhow, hope you have all enjoyed, and thanks again!


End file.
